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And when she has come to stay, Drops of sorrow engrave their way, Into her lovely, rosy cheeks— And they slide, in all elegance, Daring not to fall nor crash, The thin ice beneath her feet.
I watch, as her chin trembles And quivers, barely holding in, The screams of agony, fear; life. Thus, I cup my hands, Desperately trying to catch, What shall never be captured, By these hands of mine.
Alas! All that I do, all that I say, She will not see nor hear; For life's veil has yet to be lifted, Off her grief-filled eyes, For her to see, for her to know Of all that lies Beyond the crackling ice, Upon which she barely stands, Lamenting and weeping, For the one who has vowed To stay, for all that may come.
Alas! All I try, I try in vain, For her eyes shall never meet mine, And my promises to her, Shall drown in tears of hers, That she sheds and sheds, In lament and grief, For hands no longer destined To catch and wipe— For hands as ghostly and life-deprived, As these, these of mine.
