On a stormy dark night, about a quarter to three,
In the den I set, quietly drinking my tea.
The hours of dark are a wonderful time to reflect,
On deeds I have done, things I regret.
On the love I once had, so precious and great,
Made my poor old heart, at the shape of an eight.
How is it that I came to this plight?
`tis true love, I tell you, to my ray of light,
To a girl, as delicate as a foam of the sea,
I'll give away my kingdom, for her to be with me.
But alas, to my pleads Helena did not give in,
Sent me away, with a shrug and a grin,
My beauty Helena, Oh, can she ever forgive me?
For locking her in my dungeon and throwing away the key.

Poem © Oren Raviv
Painting © Yaniv Pe'er (me)

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