No one lives in this house anymore,
Long vacant, it fell into decay;
Once occupied by two loving hearts,
Now distant, each gone its own way
Shall I tell you of the blissful nights
And days rich with joyous harmony??
If a tear or two runs down your cheek,
Feel no shame, weep along with me
I scarce can speak of things I have seen
Without tears welling in my eyes,
But was this not easy to predict,
Walking through the ruins of Paradise?
Try to imagine love's warming light
Spilling forth from each window pane;
Never mind the snow upon the sill,
Nor the gales that foretold pounding rain
This house had withstood many a storm,
This fortress with its stanchions of love;
Who knew that Fate would come blast the ledge,
Tumbling it from its base with one shove!
Come, let's walk the garden one last time,
Does the silence not cause you to grieve?
The birds have left, not a flower blooms . . .
Perhaps it's best that we, too, should leave
I blow the coals, but they will not blaze,
Cold ashes upon a dead hearth lay
(How futile is the battle we wage
Against Fate, for it will have its way)
No one lives in this house anymore,
The window panes are cracked and broken;
The orchard is overrun with rot,
Love's final words have been spoken
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC
No one lives in this house anymore,
Long vacant, it fell into decay;
Once occupied by two loving hearts,
Now distant, each gone its own way
Shall I tell you of the blissful nights
And days rich with joyous harmony??
If a tear or two runs down your cheek,
Feel no shame, weep along with me
I scarce can speak of things I have seen
Without tears welling in my eyes,
But was this not easy to predict,
Walking through the ruins of Paradise?
Try to imagine love's warming light
Spilling forth from each window pane;
Never mind the snow upon the sill,
Nor the gales that foretold pounding rain
This house had withstood many a storm,
This fortress with its stanchions of love;
Who knew that Fate would come blast the ledge,
Tumbling it from its base with one shove!
Come, let's walk the garden one last time,
Does the silence not cause you to grieve?
The birds have left, not a flower blooms . . .
Perhaps it's best that we, too, should leave
I blow the coals, but they will not blaze,
Cold ashes upon a dead hearth lay
(How futile is the battle we wage
Against Fate, for it will have its way)
No one lives in this house anymore,
The window panes are cracked and broken;
The orchard is overrun with rot,
Love's final words have been spoken
