As summer famished devours the green infants of Spring,

And big fishes do have small ones for meat in the seas;

Thus gaping Grief swallows my days and years, and so does increase:

Therefore feeds on me to grow, as I grow lean.

Riches to riches the rich add, as the poor do years to years;

My Grief is rich, and I poor produce years to enrich him –

But his riches start to wane, for I start to lose my vim;

And when in service should I die, my Grief may fall to tears –

Not for love of his slave, but for mere loss of gain.

Yet he must weep, and in his tears would I find joy;

And so with thoughts to trade with Death I start to toy –

To oppress my Oppressor down in that bargain.

Proudest Shindara, you are all my grief!

And to see you weep, I’ll be my own sweet thief!


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By Sydney Chesterfield on May 5, 2016 · Posted in Letters To Shindara by E.R. Chesterfield, Literary, Poetry

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