Gabriel Joyce-Blake (Jessica Sabatini) is participating in the International Literary Creation Competition, 7th Edition, from Aubagne, France and is 43 years old. We thank her for her participation and wish her success.

A SAD FELLOW

Mourning our bond, I stand here alone,
Healing some wounds now thy love is gone.
No more laughters, only silent tears,
Pain that shatters bless'd and belov’d years.
Is True Love dead, ploughed in deep earth,
For in our bed, End came to birth ?
Will thou turn back, I do not know.
Will thou come back, for Time’s our foe ?
Days passing by, does our surge remain
When thou deny thou’ll love me again ?
Long are the hours and a weight the wait.
Thus lack dowers our union’s fate.
Ô Love and Friend, this dear part of me,
My soul to mend I entrust to thee.
This is our lot, welded till the end,
For we were wrought with life to contend.
Will thou turn back, will thou be mine ?
Will thou come back, hearts to entwine ?
Uncertainty is a sad fellow.
Most certainly it walks with Sorrow.


FARE THEE WELL (To L.)

Fare thee well ; in a long night thou walk.
Time tamed thee, crackling steeply thy shields,
Barren will facing ruthless fate yields,
Forsaking Earth at the striking clock.
Departed thou art ; I’ll recall thee.
Time is but a thread we harshly weave.
So thou spun thy scars on me to grieve,
Thy name written in the roaring sea.
In this fiery sphere dost thou remain,
Flesh and Soul split, cold ashes forfeit ?
Faded in silence is thy spirit.
Where are thy manes now thou had been lain ?
All gone and chained to ice-bound abyss,
All gone and tied to heaven’s all might,
Thy empty vessel gaily bedight,
Sailing along gleaming shores of bliss.


FORGET ME, FORGET ME NOT

Forget me, forget me not.
Same kicking blood in shells apart.
Bodies fractured, in pain and fraught,
Both souls wrecked in haze depart.
Forget me, forget me not.
Thy wild love was a poison,
Embedding ache that led to naught,
In fiery veins of our prison.
Love is a curse, let me tell thee.
Should we wander along bleak ways,
By chilly nights in printing sprees,
It consumes hearts to their last days.
Whilst pale’s my brow from such a flare
In wick’d urges thy beats do crave
For throes of pain we once did share
That may one day be our cold grave.