Her face now felt like that of snow,
The fact of what he would have never wanted to know,
Slow yet swiftly the water of life flows,
In this garden filled with not red but black roses,
The sand that no longer trinkles in the hourglass,
How he longs mournfully for time to last,
Her heart that will never be warm again,
The boy however was the one in pain,
And now the two will forever be apart,
As he stares at the red painted across the floor like a work of art,