A scent of blue beneath the mosk,
I wandered awfully astray.
A touch against your weavy mask
And you appear.... Moray.
I dreamt about you ceaselessly
And waited for a spark to climb,
While they were talking bitterly
About the years to come.
There is no turning back to this.
I praise you: Shine!
And I will give you utter bliss
Upon the day you're mine.