An arrow for his tempest heart,
To still her frantic beating breath,
And lock the lonely gates of death,
September, may your love embark.
Mateo is his God graced name,
No skies are brighter than his eyes,
No words as sad as his Goodbyes.
Dear Cupid, arm your bow, take aim.
And so the cherub took his mark,
Aimed too precisely at his chest,
Forced back the love strings past their crest,
And pierced Mateos tempest heart.
For in the cherubs eyes there stirred,
Septembers fading blood red lips,
Her autumn curls the cold air whips.
His given job had folly blurred.
And at that instant hope had wilt,
Septembers tomb, her passion built,
Deep in a bastions still abyss
Sealed by Cupids suicide kiss.