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?
