Our love,
My dear,
Could move mountains.
It could redirect
The course of rivers,
And it could
Force Mother Nature
On her knees.

Our love,
My sweet,
Commanded the seasons.
With the rise of our passion
Grew ferns and
Budding sweet peas.
Yet now
The remnants of our affection,
Branded on golden leaves,
Fall, dead, to the ground.

Our love,
My dove,
Is cold as the snow
Where Mother Nature
Kneels,
Her throat slit
And her blood
Colouring the sweet
Ground beneath her
And her lips
Murmuring
A solemn goodbye.