All the little forget-me-nots
Singing like a wind chime
Yet bitter under the silver sheen.

A siren’s song to the single of heart
Who listen in skepticism
As their by-gones again thieve.

Hold their heart in pitiable sight,
Tarry so no more than fleetingly.
For the single of heart, this is their lot
And of this they know quite firmly.

All the little forget-me-nots
Silent as a grave, harking
Upon the late year’s virgin frost.

For silence may speak
Great things never heard
When words become kings.

Yes, children at play held
Great thoughts at bay
Lest such things be illumined.

As reason, to children,
Is naked disillusion.
It is to be trapped in a
Great sandcastle soon
Torn asunder by the tide.

All the little forget-me-nots
Wish to sing their chime.
To this end, we must let them be.


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