Notes

Silence broken by stifled cry
wells tear in sympathetic eye.

 Deep within wherein are kept the secret salves,
retrieve the one, the only one,
that will ease the passing.

 For do dreams daily die, each one
so fragile, yet they butterfly the sun,
and in the hurricane of life are thrown down on the stone ground.

 Zeal sky glows fear upon the hatred earth,
and peace is not.
Chill darks, and ruin-hued clouds frown dismay upon the ashes.

 Dreams that die
mortal and quicken the ashes.

 Do not the ashes call forth?

 Do not the ancient songs flow to now and ever?

 For are there not dreams, yet?

 Wash the bitter from the sympathetic eye.
The dream does not forever die.