What might I possibly say to you,
Who've had to bid a dear one goodbye without reply?
Aid, abrade, what may words do,
Sounds from a now that's evoked an unchanging why?
Words, wise, unwise, all so crude -
Caws and bawls of a reason seeking to answer;
To speak seems to be to intrude,
Your timeless reverie, a sure source of succour.
Words, a sloppy prod, a nervy query,
My sole means to try and divine how you are coping;
Might a word, though duly dreary,
Find you swathed in a memory, yet as ever hoping?
Words, all that I can hope to bring,
Knowing fully well that they must and will fail,
Feeble calls of days in the offing,
When, beyond chaos, only the old love may prevail.
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