You will become like all the rest
You will have other people
And other things to do
It will no longer be about me
And certainly not about you.
It will feel – oh – so important
And inevitable too.
What else could even matter?
You wouldn’t have a clue
The days will turn on their own
Postponed sunrises turned to noon
No shadows in your harsh sun
No space for shaded dappled fun
Where will all this music go…
And words that we play artfully so?
Will the murmured whispers echo then
Our burbling streams, our shaded glen
When we are then what we are now
I will believe that we reap as we sow
But the plant, it seeks its own sunshine
And I must let go, even as you are always mine