Empty swings of children's
Blow in the chilled air
The crumpled bows littered
Which were once in her hair
Dried tears on old tissues
Are clutched by his hand
No one seems to listen
No one answers his demand
Dusty pictures are put away
So no one has to see
The days of their past and
How happy they used to be
But I suppose you can't see
Exactly what I do
Because we both are mourning
Yet, I'm still here with you. |
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