I might've surrendered, if I had a sword to offer. But all I have is a pen, one mighty in myth alone. I won’t bow, even though I’m already bent by the weight of sorrow looped ‘round my neck. But I won't fall, because I’m so sick of the taste of dirt I refuse to crawl in apparent supplication. Yes, with empty hands, love has beaten me again. So you can have this pen, this key to a heart I've too often locked with it. It’s gone empty, too. But I’ll never surrender while my soul can still speak the language of your soul. Because love doesn't require words; words are merely the filigree surrounding the mirror in which love recognizes love. Even if it's scarred and beaten, with no sword, no pen, no poetry. Only open hands, an open heart and a soul brave and giving. You'll know me when you see me.