The sharp regret that follows to the grave
Is hidden now by neither snow nor stone;
For while we’re weak, it’s possible we’re brave
Enough to face our sorrows on our own,
Albeit, we need never be alone —-
For though we live in dungeons in the dark,
The fire’s there of love’s remaining spark.

With bitterness, regret stays ever close,
An agony that’s known to very few;
As we take wormwood, endlessly, in dose
And wear the angry lie to hide the true,
And gain the strength to do what we must do —-
As in the end, love stands and gives its all,
An “always” in its heart, up to its fall

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