How strange it is
That you and I
Should let Society's whims
Decide where our future must lie.
How strange that our love,
Pure and unblemished,
Must need this stamp
Before it can be cherished.
How strange that our love,
Which has blossomed forever
Must prove its mettle,
Like a writer, an amateur.
How strange that We,
Who have seen perfect happiness, and more;
Must seek approval from those
Who believe two hearts cannot forever soar.
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