In a field vaguely lit by summer moon,
of dark blue pierced with light,
her sweet madness nearly drove him to his.
Beautiful as freshly fallen winter snow,
lit by starlight and sorrow,
he sings to her to assuage his own pain.
His songs are of summer evenings,
dark flowers,
worlds they'd journeyed,
the things he had seen.
His murmured ballad brings tears to dark conquering eyes,
voice sighing around her.
He longs for the time she melted into him,
changing his life forever.
In the snow of rose petals,
he weeps on her shoulder and sings.
She hums along,
the story so familiar to her.
She would remember little of the golden stars,
he knew,
even less of the unfathomable space and time.
He had seen eternal tempests,
devouring the yellow-gold of suns,
heartbreaking dawns of pearl and sapphire.
He had lost everything and nothing,
yet the thing that rent his life in half,
sat quietly now,
leaning against him and listening to his song.
Crying for things she could not remember.
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