Often a song sings in my soul, sad and forlorn,
For two people, who so yearned to be lovers sworn.
In a garden declaring their love in hushed voice,
They fled from each other, their needs leaving no choice...

Never did the lovers meet, both being to blame;
Time moved ceaselessly on, never staying the same.
But they'd love again: reaching for a flower once more,
They fell ill like no one had in the world before.

Under a sycamore, two beds, two shadows lay,
Under a sycamore, two lovers passed away
A hapless death charade, with neither taint nor sin,
No happy tears or smiles, or loving glow within...

Their red lips faded to a cold purple of death,
Such a pallid paleness the world had never met.
They had desired to love on the eternal side,
But love had ceased to exist, it too had died.

And lastly on bended knees at their luckless threshold
They prayed in hope, but there was no God to behold.
Their wills remained to Spring and to Summer's eve,
Bent on life: but no more was there an Earth to receive.