Not long ago, a weaver wept
Over a promise he had kept
Which burned within until he slept
To save himself from agony.

Many thought that he had left
Over some too well known cleft
Yet he remained at one's behest
And bound himself not to be free.

He cannot die, but cannot live
Over that he chose to give
To one he would have had as his
But honor would not let it be.

A shadow of his former self
His presence rarely ever felt
Openly he asks for help
To put to rest what cannot be.

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Vita, in the year 448 AD.