Still in sorrow, e’er shall I dwell;
as I write of these long aged tears,
ingrained deeply within my soul,
not for their scalding of my eyes,
but for their tendered persuasion,
as ‘ere now, in measured undoing,
her memory is cast into my muse.
Still in sorrow, her spirit remains;
as I recall her last breath to mind,
the cold pallor of her dying gaze,
not the loss of her youthful flesh,
but the final moment of her exhale,
when, in silent cry, she called me,
my name clung to her parting lips.
Still in sorrow, after all these years;
as I yet dream, her silence invades me,
as the subtlety with which she moved,
not in words, does she beg her desire,
but in her eyes, her silence thrusts forth,
and with her impaling gaze, she speaks,
wordlessly singing her ardent chorus.