I was once a vine,
clinging to you-my tree.
When you cut me loose I died,
and in that I was free.

In this life I am the tree,
and you my dear, the vine.
Now it is I that need let you die;
cruel are the paths of the divine.

Another life, I pray,
comes just around the bend.
Yet if we do not meet, know,
your memory can not end.