Feverous Vetiti Amour

I wait by the sycamore tree in the waning of wallows. 

I look to the moon, reconciling with its inevitable illuminations to follow. 

I ask the hierophant sitting by the tamarisk tree questions with each time pass, 

Will the sycamore tree still sit with me? 

Will the contempt always be? 

There, in thick silence, I, the fool, am spared for quiet squandering. 

With my empty hand, the hierophant sends a wash of answers left for pondering. 

“All there is for you to eat is your own sanguis.” 

The hierophants’ wrenching words whistle through the night’s wind,

But I am too much of a fool to listen. 

And while the hierophant is nightfall’s friend, 

The sycamore stays as time continues to bend. 

So I decide to stay by the sycamore, and I bear my fervour vetiti. 

I need you to know I will always sit myself by the sycamore, 

And when you’re ready, I'll see you adored.