Dearest friend of mine,
Earth grows around you
Art and rot, from your tomb
That beautiful thing called love lies
Her soul forever. Never.
Clara was her name.
Oh, the joy, and oh, the sorrow that
Name did thrust upon me.
Such pity do I have for Clara,
Underneath the ground.
March was the month. Her body rotting that
Evening. Her final words freshly branded in my head.
Simple, how it is, without her here.
After Clara I was
Lost and confused, telling
Lies and feeling bitter forever. Never.
Opon the fresh soil, I knelt
For her rot was right beneath me.
Understand me, oh, Clara. The
Sadness that consumes me forever. Never.