The urn with ash sits cold upon the shelf,
His name etched deep, a promise turned to stone.
Her world, once bright, now is bleak like death itself,
She feels so lost, so utterly alone.

A ruby glass, she fills it with red wine,
Then scoops a pinch, a whisper of his form.
"My love," she sighs, "and dead you are still mine."
And toasts to crescent's dim impassive horns.

The goblet empties, day by weary day,
A fragile bloom, now fading in the frost.
She sees his face, no longer far away,
A whispered promise, of a love not lost...

A lovers' pact, a vow they whispered low,
To follow where the silent rivers flow.
She drinks, she dreams, she waits for death to claim,‎
And whispers softly her beloved's name