The wind whistles its songs about something new and unknown.
Something is coming. It can be felt in the cold, dry air.
My heart aches for that something. Just anything to
beat the bitter presence of nothingness. It aches
for something so very true and real that it hurts.
Last summer's joys are all engraved in ice,
ice so hard nothing could set them free.
And so the heart needs new joys only
the mysterious something can bring.
But can the heart hold on so long?
That something just might come
too late. What if the heart
tires of waiting and breaks
with a very scary finality?
This long wait seems to
My heart and I,
we might not