Let them go, him and her,
the trees will allow them to follow
with their green veils,
just like the fairies and their sons.
Let go, the fingers numb
it is certain that the ache, shall be for sought
in the gardens where their ambitions will rest.
Please do not ask “Why here?”
I shall not grant you this sphere.
In the gardens you will follow them in search of woe,
trying to find the missing works of Poe.
Decide whether the flowers will bloom,
will you stomp on them when the showers
detest this morbid couple?
The clouds are not white anymore,
they are but the water in your eyes,
as you weep, as we weep.
There is time, to weep, to mourn
there will be time to laugh.
Another rain will follow,
caress your skin in comforting
manners and you will slowly forget;
the times you cried, the times you laughed,
and all that time you had the power
to ask questions but never awaited the answers.
In the gardens you will follow them in search of woe,
trying to find the missing works of Poe.
You shall drown, my fair Ophelia
if you do not ask, ask if it was all worth while.
You cannot wait, you must pluck those flowers,
until you remember no more her long brown hair
and the way he’d hold her as his own.
I say, do not rest your eyes within illusions
for they will stay forever upon an oasis in his deserts.
Do not hesitate to look, for they kiss in
solemn ways you’ll never understand.
To say, “Do I pray?” and “Do I stare?”
It will never seem eternal until that one
look upon a finger of death.
To see the gleaming, the spark
should have been mine? Yours? Our?
In wondrous ways will he attain her love,
as she shall confess all her flora to him
and a week after that, a year perhaps
you shall wander and find,
yourself at peace perhaps,
as he shall walk once again
with a different flower in hand.
Only then shall we no longer weep,
for you, for her, for them.
We all walk within these skies
and as we fall we move the ground