We died in the summer, when dragonflies danced
And blue was the sky and the touch of the stream.
We wandered through autumn, and struggling chanced
On an orchard of fruits that were gold as a dream.
We clung to the winter like whiteness to grass,
And kissed with a frostbite that clung to the pain.
By spring we were nothing, and let the green pass,
Both longing for summer to kill us, again.
I decided to write a ballad for the one I love. But it could never be a “Roses are red,” sincere, unconditional piece. It needed a little flavour, a pinch of morbidness. It combines a cyclical theme and structure, in its own way quite typical of seasonal ballads, with a nicely morose twist, which suits us quite well, I hope.
Love you Blair. I hope that we share many more seasons together.