if i could find words not in vain to describe her,
verses of her Virtuousness, i would sing
her humble approval in glances so fleeting
her song like a robin’s, beckoning the spring
our friendship, a gentle yet short affair
she, the girl with the golden hair

oh, how i would press softest lips to her own
should she give me a whisper, an answer, a plea,
and yet, from her halo of Heavenly judgement
not once has she cast a soft look towards me
a heart that is wounded beyond repair
she, the girl with the golden hair

through Holiest laughter, i smooth back her tresses
her eyes crinkle up in a bittersweet smile
i murmur, i love you, she tells me, i’m sorry.
we sit in the frost of december a while
warm breath on cold cheeks, puffs of hot air
from she, the girl with the golden hair

winter is breaking, and spring is long gone,
as is her gossamer, dissolute song
our friendship, a tender yet brief affair
me and the girl with the golden hair.