She was but a sonnet like no other,
With a tongue of rose and hands cold as snow.
And happy were we, I and my lover,
Roaming on lands, no soul could ever know.
For flowers so picturesque there did grow.
O' but one morning, the weatherman said -
"Halt! Winter is coming, beware of snow."
Listen we didn't, but read books instead -
Ignoring the voices inside our heads.
The lands deceased as the Winter drew nigh,
But dirt now lies where were the flower beds -
Alas came sorrow and the Heavens cry.
Nightingales sing from within her heart -
To the moon, sing- "Thou shalt not fall apart."