Died the poet has on a fateful night;
A painful death of love.
Never more a poem this pen'll write,
Never more a ballad these lips'll sing,
For life has left,
To return never.
Felt not by a heart her poems were;
Died she a virgin.
But bliss she glimpsed for days few,
Enough memories to last her through.
May her words rest in peace!
- Prats
and so she lived through her words
ReplyDeletefor all to read and live;
nevermore for a love struck heart
with none left to give.
Day after day her songs played
for ailing hearts they wept;
and yet into the sunset she rode
with promises unkept.
An eerie silence plays at her tomb
garlands of memories bequeathed;
alone in her thoughts she sleeps, only
to be nudged by her heart that withered.