It's withering away,
like a flower without water,
dying alone and drying in dismay.

The black clouds have obscured the sky,
and the sun's burning flames sustain life.
It's piercing the heart, blooming with light.

The Death of Love is like an unsung song.
It's tender to dream of listening but cruel when it doesn't play.
Words are left unspoken, and separation is prolonged.

You and I, what we left due to not knowing that sparks set up the fire,
but a lone spark fades in the wind's evil howling.
Vanity is loving oneself or believing you rest close to a playing lyre.

Let us embrace the end, not succumb to our desires.
The fires still burn within the darkest nights.
Forget the past and live, bursting out of the briars.

And our love is a forgotten song.
It's endearing to dream about but callous to forget.
Words are left unspoken, and the disunion prolongs.