If you would please remember, 
such a song that touched us deep in our sleeping hearts
The quiet of an evening touched by rain, the slow lullaby 
an unheard lament, the celebration held in bosom of shadow

The skies gathered strength, and spoke slow thoughts
Brooding upon the west that colored twilight, strewn with petals of roses
An emptiness borne of indecisive hunger
soft gestures of an innocent child in the prism’s distance, begging for you to follow

The wave of her arms entrance, the jingle of the copper upon them a song unheard of
Where are your thoughts, dear Prince? and when do your eyes open from slumber?
The gallerias chatter with the latest of this, our most precious lifes’blood, our Craft:
and in the theater a grilling, for somebody who dared at an error laugh

Stiffness from lying too long in the divan, my lovely,
a most-ancient gargouille whilst be hard-pressed to conform to your torture
There is something so wrong that in our faith, we have yet to consider:
Lord-in-Flesh-amongst-Mortals, pray tell me
The horror of the hidden moon at the worst time, and so our senses are stifled!

Where they crush the fruit to make concoctions for the lush;
A soothing croon of a rasped throat, a limpid body that summons your face
Her voice born of a thousand smokes, and the limbs of an acrobat-in-tune
The touch of sweat that glides along with serpentine grace
Nagging worry a cue right on target, and Luna at last awakens

The play of light against her skin in itself a world full of promise
But when do sweet lips, and the illness mesh: our auspex runs thin
When the women and their skills, we are ever more the willing prey
A constant sinning
Thin and sweet, 
(as shadows thicken), and with her kiss I can hardly breathe...

This time with you 
So much I miss
This dance with you
Shared with a kiss

The Lord-in-His-Anger reminds us of our weakness
Ah, in this exertion (without feeding) we could not hope to last
Better left alone in the wasteland, to rot or be repast
For those carrion avian, monsters without decency or honor
(Our Prince was swifter than a blade unsheathed) 
A lingering look, an unexpected lasting tremor

Their lamentation rang through the sudden streets,
As forceful as the dream that wakes when it is sweetest sleep:

“Better if you had cursed with a slap to the face that deserved more
Or had not ever thought to stop and share with us your Fate!
Rather than this curse of wretched silence we shall come to know
Once you have seen it fit to leave ~
A most unbearable trauma, a treacherous mishap, no value to glean amidst your crumbs
Once the dust settles, our very lives are at risk: at night, when come the plague of demons”

I, servant of the Most High, 
am possessed with exhaustion and a whole host of troubles
Closing my weary eyes for a moment like a far-away dream I hope not to suffer:
The simple wish, to share your warmest, chocolate smile with me.
Be with me in the fire of your embrace, and the love in your eyes I see 

No more of this sadness, a quiet cheer, and to stop the hounds from their ravage
Elysium has not been the same since you’ve stopped a while to lend grace
I’ve not heard your name from these lips, even the mourners’ tears have run unto the desert
A yesterday spent in the solace of our Secret, a moment that lasted for hours
A hope that with this penance, my Prince would find it in her heart to remember the dream
Of once the time of Chaos had settled, our love would last beyond wars, pestilence, illness, 
a day 
and 
forever ...

Most apparently, one of the pieces in the writer’s repertoire that follows the free form. 
This particular one grew from a string of lines with no real appeal, and has evolved into the status quo. 

Understandably exhausted, the speaker is a Toreador trapped amidst the troublesome turmoil of being the obvious prey of a Sabbat War Party. There is a certain ethnic flavor to several stanzas, which might clue the reader in, as to the origin of the Toreador in this missive.

Hopefully, the first-form of this poem is not lost.  It has been heard, that during one of the great Purges in the New Country; 
the writer took it upon himself to destroy any evidence of emotion present in his work.  This was after he had taken out his heart, locked it in a box, threw away the key into the Waters, and shoved the box away in some dark, forgotten corner. 
It was hurting him too much, it is said.

But as with all things - all secrets are soon revealed:
A young woman with eyes-of-Truth that shone into his gloom awakened the writer, and with renewed vigor, 
scrambled for the remnants of the letter; and therefore, today we are honored to view a copy of his “nearly-lost” material. 
 

For additional light reading, please refer to White Wolf's Toreador Quickstart. 
( Although the Quickstart IS indirectly related to this piece, 
it is by no means a reliable guideline to the mythology of Fade Into You. )
The reader is encouraged to address the author if there are any questions.
 

99 March 1 (exactly a year ago from today !)
(c) copyright owned by Siddharta Somar