There exists a tradition, centuries gone by
Of a warrior's bottle, and a lover's night cry
The tradition is said, to determine the fate
Of the mighty warrior, and his beautiful mate
A small bottle is given, from he to his lover
Made of delicate glass, and a cork for a cover
Then off he would go, into a long bloodied war
His mate left to worry, and long for him more
She kept the bottle close, and warm by her heart
Then like the falling rain, her tears would now start
Flowing from her cheeks, she wiped none away
Into the bottle, is where they must lay
Day into night, then night into day
Every new tear, being stored away
If the warrior survived, and returned from his quest
He would remove the bottle, that lay near her chest
If tears filled the bottle, near overflow
Nothing was said, for now he did know
It was without question, she loved only he
And had been faithful, despite being free
They would make love, until first light
Their spirits would soar, their fires ignite.
And if you look up, on such a magical night
You would see a star born, and burning so bright.
