Lupercalia was the name of celebration
For the coming of spring, promises of blossom
Announced by whistling birds engaging
In mating games a season of fertility

Where senses of revelling humans reawaken
And merriments introduced a lottery binding
Men and women to indulge in intimacy
Cupid’s arrows blindly aiming until,

A Roman man of God by the name of Valentine defied
The emperor’s orders secretly wedding
Couples to spare husbands from war.
He would become, patron of lovers and beekeepers,

A martyr for love.

His last words on a letter to his jailer’s daughter
Julia whom he healed from blindness learnt to cherish
Pouring sentiments ink on a paper humbly signed,
“Your Valentine”.

One thousand one hundred years later a poet honours
Medieval courtly love betwixt knights and ladies
Bestowing upon the date of the martyr’s death
The nobility to embody, the most noble of feelings.

Six hundred thirty-nine years later humanity demands
More than a day of romance three hundred sixty-five
Expanding expressions of affection to englobe all kinds
Of unions go beyond tear down the walls to offer

Chocolate and red roses to anyone, who elicits love.

[Featured artwork: For St. Valentine’s Day, Banksy, 2020]

Saint Valentine was executed on February 14, 269 AD.
Medieval poet, Geoffrey Chaucer wrote The Parliament of Fowls in 1381.