Wandering hand
Holds a page, torn from a book,
Hides a face,
Torn from this world.
Her tears,
Droplets of a withering spring,
Concealed by the ash,
Diluted in fog.
Can she
Pull apart,
Rainbow from rainbow,
A nest of gold for her heart
To wallow?
A scenery bleeds,
Gently through the morn,
Fading sadness into kisses,
Remembrances
Of seconds shared, with no hold.
Passed from this world,
To make another one
In the realms
Where love buries itself
Under a gleam of nectar
And roses.
Modern Romanticism 