as the wild flowers cry their nightly dews;

From different origins yet twined from birth

the stars were to align but missed their cues-

Of distant laughter, a collage of hope,

of loyal thoughts, a crescendo of love.

A gentle melody says "do not mope,

for it is surely pure, the flight of doves"

Ghastly smoke disappears in the distance,

handprint on the windows fading away-

views changes into something of semblance,

masking intentions of this cabaret.

The morning dew gathers upon her cheeks.

Whistle blows; rabbits hide, suddenly meek.