The lonely tear drops from the Frenchman’s eye

Drenching the floor with a final goodbye

The sound reverberated against the cavernous hall

Echo the only voice which follows his lonely soul

No thought spared for the loss he lives

He can’t know why the tears he gives

His memory filled with love’s labours lost

The price of heart is is pain’s brazen cost

A brain retreating into it’s cave

Is it living in an early grave?

Some say yes, it’s thoughts condemned to madness

Some say no, it is not oblivious to it’s sadness

Demented, wracked the greif’s empty breath

Young in old, present and past

Death to life, first to last

Moarn not for the life that once was lived

Or for the wife whose memory is sieved

She lives on in this addled old brain

For the Frenchman, she lives again