I give my gratitude to Cosmo Sheldrake's song, That I grew fond of the timed way in which they call, When I hear them in rest, just beyond the windows, Whistling with the midnight whisper as the wind blows. I rise when I hear them, wonder on their words, on what could be discussed, If they listened to me, they'd never leave in August.
You smile as you pour honey into my wine; I taste it on my tongue and decide you must be mine. You lament not becoming who you were destined to be, I lament, "Please don't let my honey wine leave me!" I hear you sob as you stir honey into your milk, Tears drip to the pillow while in your mourning silk. Don't let this divide us, Don't let this be our end. I finish your honey milk after tucking you into bed.