Today I tried to write an Italian sonnet. It has 14 lines, 10 syllables per line, and is (supposed to be) written in iambic pentameter. I’m fairly happy with how this turned out, even though the rhythm might be a little off.
Each person here on Earth has a true name,
A name that’s given from the God of love,
A name of peace that comes down like a dove,
A passion which sets the sad soul aflame.
This name may not being fortune, fans, or fame,
But it gives grace to soar to heights above,
And hope to through this weary world move,
To glide through life with joy as in a game.
It’s buried in the deep behind the lie
That authenticity does not have worth,
These fears and lies, they must be bid goodbye
If life is to be filled with real mirth.
To find and speak one’s true name is the tie,
That brings the lonely to a true rebirth.