She stares out the window, down through the meadow
Past hillsides of flowers and hedges of green.
She sees in the shadow a lifetime of sorrow,
A long parted lover, an undying dream.
She remembers his whisper, the thrill when he kissed her,
His touch oh so tender, her hands in his hair,
The rain on the willow, the tears on the pillow,
And dark was the evening when he wasn't there.
So many years younger, the memory lingers.
The flower of crimson has withered and died.
Now pressed between pages, the rose as it ages
Eases a pain hidden so deep inside.
Now gone is the fire, the passion, desire,
And gone are the moments and gone are years.
And all that's remaining is soft yet sustaining,
A last longing sigh that nobody hears.
