Foretell the life of thyme this clock will turn,
though this box preserve your good memory.
All life will cease through time, thy mistress fly,
tracing the flight of your crimson songbird.
Though my ash returns to dust I cherish
these errant thoughts of mind, too bittersweet.
I dream far, though quietly bittersweet,
though I find regrets no matter my turn.
That loss, picked of roses I cherish
my bouquet of dirt and wan memory.
I delight to hear notes of my songbird,
though missing sight means I can't watch it fly.
My multicolored wings led me to fly,
escaping true loss to be bittersweet.
In thinking itself anew, a songbird
has never felt so out of place and turn.
And if I can sing, then my memory
is leaving me with nothing to cherish.
This box and I left alone to cherish,
though with notes this wood can learn to fly.
Tis fair, though not, trapping your memory
a guilty pleasure, though quite bittersweet.
These gears inside this music box will turn,
light long after the death of our songbird.
Though blind, I trace the flight of our songbird.
Your notes are all I have left to cherish.
My sight of sense has left with naught to turn,
my hands at my sides, and you've left to fly.
My guide's death has left me with bittersweet
tears, with naught but this box and memory.
And I will wear, holding this memory.
Foolish, to think I could be a songbird.
All these regrets achingly bittersweet,
this box and this thought all left to cherish.
My heart pounds quickly, trapped at every turn,
my wanderer, I simply wish to fly.
This memory of mine, here to cherish,
This songbird in a cage, breaks free to fly,
Though bittersweet, I move to end my turn.