Podgorica, Summer 2018
Down lanes wherefrom the stories of thee come,
I’ th’ night whence voices bring thy sights; when th’ air
Is cool, and peace had o’ th’ burnt town and dumb.
Is’t that I then passed over thee per chance
That still begrudgest me though I want blame?
Have I not since in plenty sued that glance,
And like a beggar prostrate blessed thy name?
My Fair, dost hear not how the night doth ring,
“Hast seen her?”, “Prithee, friend, tell where she be?”,
As I like mad cicada thy name sing,
And rummage filling th’ midnight peace with thee.
Come out to meet me, my most gracious Dame,
Come out to me, the peace doth speak thy name.