The moon as content as a rose

The whispering wind on her neck

The harmonious lull of the voices in her head

As she looks beyond the horizon

Picture a war scene, shrouded in horror

Picture him cowering, brave yet in terror

Picture a letter, bruised by the burning

Picture a glimmer of hope for his returning

Then picture her from the window so high

Her eyes dull as the colour of grey skies

Picture her weeping; openly, painstaking

Picture her forcing the pen down the page;

Jagged marks shaping her grief

And then picture me this:

Can you imagine, when he reads it: the bliss?