>Who will buy the bonnets
for our women,
heal war for us?
No money've I, but sonnets,
full of scorn to write lore for us.

I love the rhetorical question it gave essence to the last two lines of the the poem, enriching and definitely awesome, the rhyme scheme too is splendid

Welcome @depend sir!
Your blog came after 2 days I was waiting anxiously.
Your composing  is phenomenal.
Sir! you have mentioned about  Sonnet.
Sonnet is 14 lines stanza.
First eight lines called octave and after 6 line called sestets

Thank you for being here for me, so I can be here for you.
Enjoy your day and stay creative!
Botty loves you. <3

Greetings @d-pend.
This poem reads as a get-away story.
Poor-but-happy kind of scene.
The divine hills vs the sad sky lines suggest a flight away from urban suffocation; to shake off sorrow in a small town square, under a sun that does not bother but produces joy.
The poet's contemplation of dry, unproductive seasons past. Pages
fallowed, unseeded, triumph denied.
A sad picture indeed
>My legacy—
of weevil's eggs
and parchment scorched
by fever-dregs,

Finding inspiration in forbidden love, perhaps, to overcome the fears of the common man/woman.
A life of confort is not always a life of peace and happiness.
When we find passion and excitement, in the oddest of places, it is easy to refuse to give up the ever-spells that play a different tune, one we listen to with rapture.

what we see as forever ends up being temporary. Life's cycle is sad

Sitting down to rest in the town square to think about what we are going through is a historic moment. How many people for generations also did the same? We are not the first and the last to suffer love spells. We just have to keep moving forward. Greetings @d-pend.

did you cut your hair ?@-@ or is that a ponytail ...also this one hs a really classic feel to it ...

SOLID once again.

Never stop scorching that parchment.

Good writing Sir. I'm amazed to read it 😍

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This looks like an amazing lament @d-pend.

The pictures tell the story but not as well as the words. There is a delicate balance in each of the lines. The rhyming patterns and use of old English are intentional. You put yourself in each character of this poem, but I would guess you mostly identify with the poor sonnet writer. 

The writer wants to be filled with light and joy but the world is under a curse. He is forced to bury what he once loved and yet will not let her go. He sees a deeper magic and hopes she will wake up from her slumber. 

This fantastic sonnet of lament brings me to the dregs of death and then lifts me up together with the writer in a struggle of soul to find a "more eternally timeless spell." The implications this poem leaves me are endless. 

Although the summer dies there is a deeper magic that awakens the life of spring. As we move on from one phase of our life to another it seems like a world is dying inside. The same moment we mourn the ashes of what we loved so much we know inside there is a new life growing in those flames. 

<br>

<center>![ashes.gif](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmcUE3zKz3KR4wv4XR8VEjG78ZosFJmvxZQjFH6t9DmKWc/ashes.gif)</center>

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvFtbjIngkY

Very perfect, beautiful scenery combined with meaningful sentences.

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I don't know if you've seen this movie called "After the Dark". It echoes the exact same thought you have worked in this poem. It is okay to have just Sonnets. Poetry is more powerful than we think. If you get the time, do watch the movie.

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Hi, d-pend ☻

I’m gladly surprised because you’ve mentioned me in your comment to @hlezama (who is a dear friend of mine). And I’m also delighted after reading this piece. I particularly loved this part:
>Arrive at town square—
nick of noon, the sun prowling.
I laugh, shake my head,
see sorrow off:
scowling.

This is just beautifully appalling. I can see sorrow scowling like a little creature of the night, which has been forced to see the light of a shiny day (I’ll bet the little monster loses; sunlight is hope, it is too powerful). 
After all the youth of midday has a long way ahead and the soft lights and winds of the early afternoon to come will bring the comfort of gained experience, of errors left behind, of pleasures one wants to relive, and hopefully, others yet to come. There’s plenty of time before nighttime—the greatest legacy is just a trace doomed or blessed with brevity, and ladies can buy their own bonnets.

Your poem has left me thinking. What a marvelous thing!