A tear descends  from the widow’s eye,
Rain that drops down window sides.
The feeble bird with clipped wings,
Listen to the melancholy notes it sings.
Shattered glass that taints the streets,
The sound of sirens in the air competes.
The outcast hound that howls at night,
The shadow that lingers in the pale moonlight.
Flames of fire that reduce to embers,
And there sets in the cold of Novembers.
Impish wind that whips your face,
Making you long for the Sun’s sweet embrace.
The desolation of my forlorn soul,
All that remains is vacant and fragments.


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