Will you remember this conversation?
How words and music bridged our minds.
For what I have lost, so much was gained
in those moments of starting stories.
Once I heard and answered all the questions,
and spoke the language of plum blossom flowers.
Bearing apricot sweet dreams and craving spring,
we pressed each petal between the pages,
a singular beauty captured in a moment.
Now an old soul, who has paid time,
I share conversations with the night time creatures,
who have too much silence between the words,
and refuse to let you see all that has gone.
But out of pity and remorse,
they are given light by the moon and the stars.
I can see the night come down around them
and wait for each soul alone, it is enough to frighten me.
Now I pay more attention to sunlight bright
on the Fen river, than describing a sun that shines after death
and a world in silent pact unwilling to scatter it’s immortal seeds.
And as each petal vanishes, the day becomes darker.
