I see the ache that now resides in you,
The heart's low moan, the echoes I pursue.
A storm of days, where solace cannot be,
The broken threads of what you held so free,
A cherished thing, you held against your breast.
The garland once, a beauty you possessed,
Now hangs a noose upon your weary neck.
Oh, sorrow, sorrow, what shall we expect?
This woven fate, the deeds that you have sown.
Endure, dear heart, with brow that will not moan.
The time will pass, and we shall meet again.
I see the buried memories rise, like rain.
That sleep within, but cannot be undone,
They leap the walls, when daylight has begun,
When sweet eyes close, and turn from me their gaze,
When shadows fall, in these deceptive ways.
You bring your constant trials, day by day,
Your accusations, hurled in disarray.
You call me traitor, then you call me dear,
Yet judgment waits, and lingers, ever near.
Oh, sorrow, sorrow, what shall we expect?
This woven fate, the deeds that you have wrecked.
Endure, dear heart, with brow that will not moan.
The time will pass, and we shall meet again.
How can a savior rise from this despair?
When all the world forgets, and does not care.
You must now seek, within your very core,
You must now walk, what you have walked before,
And build anew, the words you must restore.
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