The poplar tree blooms no more,
The magpie sings no new songs,
Yet I cling onto the restless years,
When you, my dear, were still here.

Remember the wind that took your hat,
And a gentleman I was retrieving it back?
Our eyes destined for the first time,
& now I long so for that beautiful eyes.

Merry it was our days in your kitchen!
Pots and pans we sang & dance!
Our feet tangled not on the carpet of red,
Our hands twine like a morning glory on a fence.

Such days are but a memory,
As I live to sit on the chair alone,
Remember not the day of  judgement,
For my heart aches and sores for you.

My dear, how long should I wait,
Wait for another meeting of our fate,
The piano has no fingers to await,
For the only fingers to await was you.

Winter comes soundlessly still,
As your hands appeared in mine.
I smiled and forklift my cane,
& now the chair is left alone.

*"Olivia, is that you?"