To the memory of one I loved and lives no more.
Here in the night below the moon
I’ve cried that love is vain, and every word
we whisper to our lover’s ears is wind forever gone.
But no love goes to waste, I now suspect—
my eyes glow with the light of every orb
that on this ancient sky has ever slept
as I pronounce with weakened words the truth.
O, no love goes to waste, I do not doubt;
it is forever kept away from us, cruel passing dust,
warm in the heart of those who never knew
nor will know that our whispers never died.
And as we slowly fade into the baleful mist,
you stranger have to know you’ll light your way
if you remember this I say, not fool nor wise:
that no love goes to waste, no memory dies.