"How about me, Aaron?" Her voice explained her hidden intention.
"You?" His eyebrows raised.
"I asked you to make a poem about Elle, now what about me? Can you....make a poem about me?" She showed her shy nature.
"You like it when I do that, eh?" Aaron let out a gentle laugh. He took his dear Margaret and his finger started to dance with her. Through a gliding bow on a string, Genevieve could hear a lovely sound of music, which she recognized as Paganini's classical piece.
Cantabille (Aaron's poem about Genevieve)
Is it so peculiar to say?
That I find beauty in her complication?
What dwells in her mind
Never fails to make me wonder
She was one of a kind
For I can not keep my sight off her
Her words and thoughts were a bliss
That no other one can tell
Her sweet smile was my wish
Everytime I went through hell
She is sensitive, I must say
Which made me has a friend to babble around
She always wanders along the way
But does she want to be found?
I always admire
How she doesn't need the aid of a man
I also admire
How she works, how independent
She taught me to see
The even smallest light in the dark
She is a precious, precious gem to me
And how I miss it everytime we lark
She sees everything I look not
A kindness that stays within
A joy that's buried deep
A purity of one's intention
A pulchritude in a dying hope
A brilliant perceiver, she is
Sometimes I wonder
What am I to her?
The other times I ponder
Am I worthy of her?