Time drags on, as I face the clock,
He's counting down my days, my hours, and my minutes;
Dust has collected, as if a mimic of me,
And I know my time is most definitely not infinite.
I pull my robe closer, but I am cold,
Watching the shadows arise for a new day;
I know I should eat, I should bathe,
But at my perch I will stay.
You never knew how much I loved you,
How could a gardener love the madam of the homestead?
Now we both wither away at your bed,
As I rest my lips upon your forehead.
