How my heart does wonder still,

                of love, I labored long, to fill,

in skies so dark, I cannot see,

               that thing, which lives, relentlessly.

It's phantom roams forgotten rooms,

              that lurks about this endless gloom,

of sorrow for the wasted years,

             with reddened eyes from drying tears.

I see the sweeping of a broom,

            whose face is hidden by the door,

I hear a knocking on my heart,

            that echoes hope you tore apart.