Poetry

(for A)
 
Like a pretty rose that faded quite young
your sweet love for me had suddenly died
where with some withering leaves it did hung
and day after day and nights, I did cry
and now suddenly some twenty years on
while in loveliness you defiantly act
as if our youth is not already gone,
you want to turn the clockwork of time back,
still I am lonely the night is black.