Old Boston, Massachusets 02136
(Winter) Early February, 1800's
Gleaming Moon of 2:00 AM
Sweet dearest Isabelle, It has come to this day, yet I malinger quite mellow of any last hope. What has such misfortune days be of your well being? Painfully still, I care love... Our love was too fragil a feeling, too strong a word to have said so soon and nor to have endangered of and in a world to have survived too early... Indeed as well as it had been to us too beautiful, too greater a meaning to have said or lived it too late or yet nevertheless at all... However, we knew better of what was felt of what was indeed instant, pure and graceful. Unaware to our denials I wrote you this, love... And she Is-a-belle as it came to me in a whisper than a dream, so have the memories of the old promised days why it is as thorn a heart hard to bear and to ever phantom such a day to come was ignorant of a sight where in moment before this time it would have been frozen of my might to ever will have to say...
Isabelle is no more; and sincerely Isabelle Morse my love, with deep and further regrets came the days of hopelessness. Our love, the love that once were us...
Sir. Wilgeens "AfroLatino" Rosenberg
Isabelle Is No More by Wilgeens "AfroLatino" Rosenberg. What says the reasons You have left sush asudden, You have given up on us; Oh why With disregard as such you have ignored For our love have traveled Through and across many As glad did so our souls roamed This open field as we last seen it The clouds today, remembered us Stagnant they were, thick and white Yielding bright on a blue canvas sky and still Oh the many seasons we have shared Our joy dashed all through Traces of the evergreens None other smells to rejoice To compare then the prestine lillies Our laughters were never our pains Only the bliss of our remedies What hence became today Rather the fruit of our sweet miseries
Isabelle is no more
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