Lysira grumbled softly as she stared out toward the blazing amber hue that danced across the thin, translucent edge of the horizon, a tattered scrap of paper clasped within her mud-splattered grasp as her dull, vacant stare wanders between the mound of raised earth that marked her mother's grave and the dying light of the sun.
The words enscribed upon the paper left a blotted mark, the blotted ink scrawled across the page in a barely-legible handwriting that seemed entirely out-of-place atop of the dutiously mantained grave.
Dear Ma'..
Perhaps some day the sun will shine again,
And I shall see that still the skies are blue,
And feel once more I do not live in vain,
Although bereft of you.
Perhaps the golden meadows at my feet
Will make the sunny hours of spring seem gay,
And I shall find the white May-blossoms sweet,
Though you have passed away.
Perhaps the summer woods will shimmer bright,
And crimson roses once again be fair,
And autumn harvest fields a rich delight,
Although you are not there.
But though kind time may many joys renew,
There is one greatest joy I shall not know
Again, because my heart for loss of you
Was broken, long ago.
