For seven days and seven lonely nights,

I've been riddled with traumatic frights,

Even I myself cannot foretell such inflicting sights,

For these are the memories of my foreboding heights.

For you Bella, my raven of the song,

This, I write to thee in the language of the ancient tongue,

Take your place in my heart, in which you rightfully belong,

As our love lasts for all eternity long.

Bella, I am so distraught to see that you are gone,

From this world in which I am soon to die and rot,

I cannot foretell if my suffering is short or long,

But I do know that my pain is endless and my heart is naught.

Our love was a wuthering of tremendous height,

For Bronte's poetic art could only describe its might,

Our masques come off on the dreary of midnight,

And together we shine with a luminous pink light.

Within the park of Oxford under the cloudless night sky,

Sitting on the bench overlooking the lake, noticing your sobs,

I ask you, "Why Isabella, must you shed your tears and cry?"

"Oh Bryan, It is because I will soon fall and die."

I hold you tight as I could, with no wish to lose you.

"I'm sorry that I have not told you this sooner," you say to me, "knowing damn well that this will confuse you."

Oh how I sobbed and sobbed in this mild summer chill,

Until I realized that your body had gone still.

There was not a pulse, not a breath, and I was going awfully insane,

In the lowest pit of agony, I cry out your name.

Isabella, my beautiful Raven, has now perished,

And I weep in such an anguish shame.