Most poems remain unwritten.
Most songs remain unsung.
They died with those who loved them,
Never knowing another tongue.
Those poems once heard,
Are now lost to an endless void,
Recited as hearts were stirred,
When lovers were overjoyed.
They were once sung lightly,
Those rare, contented songs,
They were sung to lovers nightly,
But now they’re forever gone.
As blood was spilt,
They were overshadowed;
Drowned out by the sounds of war,
The cities they were rebuilt,
But that which to love was hallowed,
Can never be restored.