It isn't grief, not quite,
though a tear now starts to bloom,
it isn't grief, not quite.
You, too, are not quite you today,
nor am I quite myself, it seems,
it isn't grief, not quite.
No joy now holds its joy,
nor sorrow its familiar sting,
it isn't grief, not quite.
If death is death itself,
life's flame diminishes not,
it isn't grief, not quite,
though a tear now starts to bloom,
it isn't grief, not quite.
|
