By JH Sayyar
Cuckoo’s haunting voice of hill and glade,
Sing not of spring, but of my sorrowed flame
A love once bright, now in the coldest shade,
Its echoes dulled, yet whispering her name.
Thy call once stirred her laughter in the breeze,
Now stirs my tears, like dew on graveyard stone;
Thy flight recalls our walks beneath green trees,
Now I must tread those paths, and weep alone.
Tell me, did thou see where her heart did flee?
Did roses bloom where once she turned away?
Or did she fade like the stars lost to the sea,
At dawn’s approach, when dreams give into day?
Still sing, sweet bird, though joy no more shall be
Sing dear love once lost, alas, and lost eternally.
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