S’been three years now and still the lights go up
On the heels of night into the crack of dawn
The leaves, they gently float from empty branches
Like dreams that died the moment they were born

We see the toil of men for unknown masters
We build things up to tear them down again
Still people love, and lie, to one another
Still hearts entwine, while others, cleave in twain.

In August, still, the summer turns to autumn
And then still waters turn to sheets of ice
Then spring peels back the petals of the crocus
And the fields spill forth abundant sacrifice.

But for three years now
my letters, unread,
My heart aches for the words that won’t be said
Your lips were stilled; my pen, my heart, were frozen
The day I knew, my darling, you were



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