There is a low keening sound
Carried through the air on waves of sorrow
Pure, incessant notes of loss
For love cannot be heard

Her spirit weaves its delicate tread
Tiptoes between the graves of dead hopes
Surveys all damage for her sake
For love cannot be perceived

Her ghost wails for infants born in her name
Generation upon generation
Each named with hope of lasting
For love cannot be enacted

Her reflection gazes through the mirror of longing
Illusions only are seen in return
Smeared and distorted with disappointments
For love cannot be understood

Needing and wanting mimic her soft voice
Desire and lust clutch greedily at her garments
Yet none will prevail
For love cannot be imitated