The hesitant sound of a frozen foot’s tread.

Walking forward to the land of the dead.

Soul in ashes, heart a shred.

On this, an early winter morning.

The sun’s slanting beams, a gentle glow.

Pounding blood like rivers flow.

When will it be the time to go?

Below the dead lie there and smile.

What do they think all this while?

On this, the only winter morning.

Not on this early winter morning.

The wind through the trees with a gentle sigh.

Lifts the sounds of restless souls and mourners cry.

Who dares stand and ask why they die?

On this early winter morning.

The waking trudge on, mile on mile.

She stands beside his grave.

Her sadness sweeping o’er her like a wave.

She had longed that day his life to save.

On that early winter morning.

So still, so still there she stands.

Her time ticking away like grains of sand.

Her wish to see him and let him hold her hand.

This moment, this early winter morning.

Her tears of sadness unseen like hand inside glove.

She remembered their joy, their fathomless love.

His death was a shocking violent shove.

On that early winter morning.

As she remembered her fingers curled.

His death, his end destroyed her world.

From the towering bridge he was callously hurled.

To death, on that early winter morning.

Friends kind words could not soothe her pain.

She knew she would not see his face again.

His death, a mystery they could not explain.

On that early winter morning.

She knew their love was meant to meant

Her soul onto him she had to send

Her life that day she did willingly end.

On that silent winter morning.