Summerchild

Our love was a summerchild.

By autumn it fainted.

Winter, it couldn't survive. 

We met one last time

before tearing paths

for our summerchild

deserved a burial. 

We dug the deepest grave,

so deep 'till the Earth

itself our loss

started cry,

and around, we gathered

the crop of colours winter

allows to shine:

dandelions, lemons,

clementines, holly fruit,

capercaillie feathers

and the motherly warmth

of the fire home. 

Our love that couldn't 

survive winter,

how many wonders

it weakness had despise!

And once we finished 

we look at the grave

more beautiful that any love

has ever borne;

the grave we never dug

for our unborn son.

And in a final embrace

we said some final words:

Our love was a summerchild.

It lived the endless days

and nights of Earth's

warmest song,

and there were no eyes

that wouldn't find joy

in our tender dance. 

It picked the seweetest fruits,

it swam in seas

of gentle waves. 

But our love was

a summerchild.

By autumn it fainted.

Winter, it couldn't survive.