In the throes of insomnia, an exceptionally long time ago, I found myself roused at the early hour of three in the morning. Seized by a fervent and despairing impulse, I wrote with unrelenting urgency about the anguish of unrequited love and being single. The despair, as is its wont, eventually dissipated, leaving in its wake a legacy of lines imbued with melancholy. These lines, born of nocturnal desolation, now seem well-suited to be transformed into music, evoking the same poignant emotions that inspired their creation. The original lines read as follows after I cleaned it up slightly:
“If, as the saints of Assisi, Francis and his companion Giles aver, It is better to love than to be loved, Then I am a most fortunate man indeed. If this be a jest, verily, I am well mocked. My heart, encumbered with unanswered love, Holds those affections deep within, Some as faintly glowing embers, Others as white-hot coals.
Contrary to the lyrics of poetry, The artifice of novels, and the drama of screen, There is no soaring inspiration or felicity In unrequited love, Only a sore appreciation For knowing that I possess humanity, The capacity to give of myself Without the expectation of reciprocation.
In truth, perpetual aloneness, To be unloved, Is a tragedy from an individual perspective, Yet a trivial banality from a societal view, As uncountable multitudes have lived and died alone, Without affectionate human touch, Long before me, And will long after me.”
Lyrics to “A Tale Oft Told” by Donald S. Yarab
If, as the saints of Assisi proclaim,
Francis and Giles with hearts both the same,
It’s better far to love than to be loved,
Then I am blessed, by heaven's grace, beloved.
If this be jest, then jest, indeed, is true,
My heart has felt no lover’s steadfast view.
Unanswered love has planted seeds of fire,
Some as faint embers, some as hot desire.
Not like the verse in poet’s crafted lore,
Nor novels, screens, with tales that promise more,
In unrequited love, the truth is clear,
A sore yet noble proof that I am here.
Though solitude may mark a tragic plight,
To one, it’s pain, to many, common sight:
A tale oft told, in ancient times and now,
For countless souls alone did live somehow.
If love's a gift that’s given without claim,
Then I am rich in heart, though poor in name.
For in the silence of unspoken dreams,
My soul finds strength in love's relentless beams.
The night, it whispers secrets to the stars,
Of solitary hearts and hidden scars.
Though love unreturned brings shadows near,
It carves within a path to persevere.
In dreams, I wander through the fields of time,
Where love’s soft echoes linger, so sublime.
Each heartbeat sings a song of love unshown,
Yet in the pain, a deeper truth is known.
For every tear that falls from longing's eye,
A testament to love that cannot die.
Though unrequited, love remains so pure,
A testament to what the heart endures.
And so, I cherish every silent cry,
Each whispered wish beneath the moonlit sky.
For in this love, though met with quiet ache,
I find a strength that time cannot unmake.
Northcoast Antiquarian 