When they hung out the stars on a washing line
to watch them shrivel and lose their shine
I knew it was an omen.

The night still came though dark and plain
the moon still cast its spell
but
the magic had gone
the romance had died
it was just as well that I never cried
God how I tried, but
I couldn't remember how.

She flew south
I watched her go,
fluttered,
her wings as white as
drifting snow
I drifted too and waited for
the Summer.