I am not a poet and English isn't my first language. So it is more about the content of the poems than the rhyme scheme.
I do not own any of the characters.
You've got mail.
"Victoria, you've got mail." Don Diego had entered the tavern and handed three letters to the tavern keeper. " The letters I received for Dona Corazón this month. Let me know how much space you think you'll need in the next edition. And I will make sure it can be published."
Swiftly Victoria pulled the letters out of the hand of the tall caballero. He was editor of the local newspaper. "Thank you, don Diego. Look at that, three letters. You see, people are starting to see the point of having someone who advises on love. I told you there was a demand for it."
"That's right, yes, you did." The don made a smile at the beautiful woman in front of him.
Since the first edition of the local newspaper, Victoria had been pushing hard for the need for someone to give advice. Don Diego had laughed about it a bit at first. For the first edition, she had sent in a letter of her own.
As for most of the following editions. In fact, she had only had two actual letters. Once about what kind of present to buy for a young woman. And once, a letter that had made her blush. Because it had been so specific, and she had refused to do anything with it. In the end, she had burned it.
This month, Victoria had sent two letters again. Both had a blank sheet of paper. She would make up an answer to the unasked question later. But now, she held three envelopes in her hand. That meant that for the first time in six months. There was a letter from a genuine reader!
Looking around the crowded tavern, she wanted to read it as soon as possible. The letter was a confidential one, so she had to wait. Don Diego as editor. And Sergeant Mendoza, who had his own column. They were the only ones knowing the identity of dona Corazón was. Victoria safely tucked the letters away in the pocket of her apron.
She had to wait a few more hours and read the letter after closure. The letter was burning in her mind for the rest of the evening. It was after closing time when don Diego was the last customer to leave the tavern.
She locked the door behind her and hurried to a table with a lamp on it. She tore open the envelope and began to read the neat regular handwriting.
It wasn't a question or anything like that. It was a poem.
She is my day,
She is my night.
She is my sun,
She is my moon.
She is my rain,
She is my drought.
She is my dream,
She is my star.
She is my earth,
She is my sea.
She is my sky,
She is my soil.
She is my fire,
She is my water.
She is my heaven,
She is my hell.
She is the most beautiful,
She is the prettiest,
She is the best.
She is all this and much more than I ever dared to dream.
Whoo, Victoria waved her hand because suddenly she felt warm. It was a love poem written by a very romantic man for a woman he cared deeply over.
Was it a secret love? Had the man been sending a letter to the Guardian. In the hope, it would be printed? And the woman would read it? That was romantic.
Victoria folded the letter back. Tomorrow, she would ask Don Diego if the poem could be printed. Somehow it met Dona Corazón's requirements to help in the affairs of the heart. And to bring loved ones together.
.
.
Just had the idea this morning and this is the beginning. I am not sure yet where this story will take me. And I am a worse poet than a writer, in both Dutch and English, so suggestions are welcome.