There is a fluted cry of birds,

a song of dark, throaty stillness…

there is that cry in me, my love.

The trickling of silver waters,

which curl and swell invisibly

still disturb my waking hours,

as I watch the rise of the sea.

The golden sand of the seashore,

is made damp and ugly with rain…

the chords of your heart strummed and

torn down with this new song of pain.

Not the wit nor the song, nor smile

of the troubadour can now still

the ceaseless aching of my heart,

the grief of a repented kill.

What new, golden morning will rise

from those cold, cloudy recesses

of midnight dark and midnight skies?

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