Val(ak)or

Bestow unto me all that I wish,
And I wouldn’t be as glad,
There are things that I hold so dear,
And forget to make a wish for.

Familiar hands, tender,
Which need not see all around,
That is the price of love,
And satiety unknown to thee.

Fresh leaves of my chronicle,
Which for years has been here,
Smell remembrance,
And yet remain passed over.

A faint light within,
Which flares the (un)holy,
Has been unbothered and still,
And summons val(ak)or.

Bestow unto me all that I list above,
And I wouldn’t be more glad,
These are the things that I hold so dear,
And forget to make a wish else-for.