These roses won't be here next spring,
This moon will die yet another death,
Yet I can not imagine more precious a night,
Than this one here, tonight,
One that'll soon die at dawn.
Under the brutal light of some midday sun,
When I lie, marred by three score years,
These locks then grey,will still dance the breeze,
Fragrant from the nape of you neck.
Time and miles never dared to touch,
You were brought to me on the wings of dreams.
1 comment:
still as beautiful as it was then
Post a Comment