Its surface playful as silver birds the stream trickles through the gateway the sun embroidering intricate patterns upon the rocks scattered about by time itself once again I hear the soothing whisper of my fair lady, the dryad of summer gate beautiful yet broken descants, firm but trembling
This is the past turned to present remembering this blissful picture torn apart your loss a dying petal on a ravishin flower
I hear the falls where I first met you mingling with my tears, the flow of life I feel my hand upon the cold stone where before I caressed your white skin
This twilight grove of willows is darkened by your presence your flaunting black hair engulfed by the sun joining the dancing shadows upon your tomb
This is the past turned to present remembering this blissful picture torn apart your loss a dying petal on a ravishin flower