He is cherry trees in the spring evening,
precious to behold as night slowly falls.
He speaks with a softness never-failing
to capture all the weary he enthrals.

With a grace like Heaven, he passes by
and snatches me up from the soiled floor.
He is the daystar in the morning sky,
glowing brightly from behind the closed door.

If only I could catch him when he sings,
place a mirror before his smiling face,
I could show him all of the beautiful things
that he hides in this poor, forgotten place.

We could talk like friends in free, easy speech
but, alas, he is just beyond my reach.