My lover stands on an ocean cliff
hair loose, cascading down trembling shoulders.
In her small hands, tightly gripped
are the letters which I have once sent her.
And how the tears do wet her sweet face,
embed in long lashes, spill on flushed cheeks.
And how her clean dress does splay on damp earth and dirt
as her slender frame collapses beneath her knees.
My lover calls my name to the sky;
she strikes at the rocky ground.
With hands so fragile, they nearly bleed,
in madness, does she pound.
Weakly does she crawl, ever closer to the sea;
as her dainty frame nears the edge,
she thinks perhaps she'll be closer to me.
But how my lover is wrong, how would she die in vain
for my body lies not down below, but in the cold rain,
and in the white clouds and its delicate breeze,
and in the emerald grass and its emerald trees.
So sweet lover, my darling, hear my loving plea,
do not search for me but let me be;
and live on, my lover, my beloved dear,
when the time comes, you shall meet me,
do not fear.