In the silence of the night,
Whenever stars are faint, and with no light.
At this point an elegiac verse begins to emerge,
Anguished and with their eyes welled up.
An individualized flower that blooms only one time.
Now is here ignored in pregnant dark.
As love that was once warm and now is cold.
“Now, the vastness of space has lost them.”
This story can be read in a mournful poem.
Vain hopes and fragile hearts on Nadal.
The echoes of a distant past,
Of moments that we knew we will not be able to spend a lifetime together.
Low, and resemble distant echoes when you come back.
The constant stream of a funeral dirge poem.
The tears that water the earth as rain in the autumn season does.
Every single drops an emblem of our suffering.
Jog loose memories of what has now become history.
And how the world continues its pace.
A mournful poem which we need to chant.
Another fight we cannot avoid is that of weight
We have to relieve it, when it cannot be fought.
All each and every line a step through mournful poem.
A trip where we are lost once more.
The memories we try to keep
Locked away and far too deep as well.
Still though the melancholy poem continues.
Tender loss and broken wings kind of poetry.
The solitary blue above, the still brown below.
The moments we do not like or bear in our lives.
All spelled out in an elegiac refrain.
This is a song of life and it is sweet curse.
But hope, as we all know, opens in May,
like some particular dawn, softly.
It helps us from the sadness that we create.
Yet until the present day for the mournful poem,
Is where the breaking hearts belong.
To keep it simply, the time will heal some of
the pain though years will go by.
A mournful poem will stay there.
A method in which to voice the sentiments unexpressed.
Love is now dead because this is a tribute to it.