When weeps the time for passion’s flame
and moonlit stars don’t look the same,
it finds no place where clearing falls
instead, dark depths the heart does trawl.
Gardens, gone from bush to brush and then to hush,
have sung their songs of youthful blush.
To fight the mind’s cruel entropy
one serves the heart’s lobotomy.
But soon in life if not in limb
come moments still, one’s cup to brim.
And then, when whispers fend off shouts
no more weeps time, then, love slakes drought.