His Wife
In her cold tomb her spirit lingers,
It was his ring she wore upon her third finger.
A tainted body, so meek, so frail,
Once golden, now so pale,
With long hair and a painted face,
He could still smell her perfume,
But only a trace...
With baby's breath and a single faded rose,
He valued his wife more than diamonds,
To him she was more precious than gold.
Her life wasn't measured by the number of breaths she
would take,
But by the moments when she took his breath away.
Such an untimely death, as he heard the doves lonely song,
He sat there wondering how life could go on.
Here comes the new dawn,
The sun would still shine.
He would remember her beauty,
Until the end on time.
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