The broken pieces Of the clear puzzle Were made When she was eight The lines are hard to see Smoothed out by hands That put the broken pieces Gently Back together first Adding his own broken To repair hers Then the puzzle Pieced all together Clearly seen Reflecting what It should be
I remember the hidden chapel bells in her voice, The little cloister of her abbey looks that opened To a lovelorn courtyard of cisterns and well works, The sounding pulleys and ropes from the springs, I will miss her nothing said to my infinite misgivings.
where solitude and solace unite, the painful past is viewed at my hind sight, for which the present heals, the future becomes more bright stay here for a while, it's alright to mourn and heal in the night.