A darkness bleak, the cauldron simmers low,
While hovering about, the Master smiles
With hellebore and henbane crushed in piles,
He stirs the deadly mix with gestures slow

Miasma, like a shroud of coming night
And scented as if spring were caught inside,
Or roses, past their best and opened wide,
Wreathes about his head like ribbons bright.

The glow beneath the cauldron flares; this brew
Created to break memories' strong fences,
bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses,
Is done, and now the Potion Master's through.

His project bottled, happiness distilled.
He'll not drink now, and knows he never will.