Sleep eludes me,
so I stay up all night,
and think,

As time passes,
I begin to examine my wrists,
and discover something quite remarkable,

In the places,
where marks from past mistakes once laid,
now only ivory skin remains,

Now, as I wait for the sun to come up,
it hits me,
scars do fade, just over time.

These birds of war that encircle the sky
painted dark by smoke from fires engulfing
events here: every one of them spawns
an illusion, spreading in all directions, until
no twig is untouched: everywhere only
the Mistletoe. Fragrances of the deep night
by the ford under the moon, silken hair
soft for touch under first rays of the golden
morn, images, return broken like imprints
on the ramparts; where now, those oaks
of love that sustained our passion for war?
Years sunk into the quicksands of greed,
After nine winters, now only the Mistletoe.

Fear deepens and plays
on insecurities
like the shrill of a violin
it leaves your heart on edge
taking and blackening bits of the soul
contentment such a far fetched goal

When I am dead, my dearest,
    Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
    Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
    With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
    And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
    I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
    Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
    That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
    And haply may forget.