An archaic rose crumbles within the failing grasp of brittle hands reaching The golden boughs twirl and dance to the forgotten music of souls searching A silence falls over a subdued landscape composed of textures caressing One simple word falls from the lips of a woeful lover alone and silently weeping Why The world goes on in the usual way while people stop and watch wondering Each time the bird sings in the forest no sound is heard except for breathing The tragic memories of times of joy fill the minds of those who are dying A question poses itself in the form of a sound which no one hears asking Why All the world is made up of living things which are only victims feeling The bird that sings knows that it must make the music for the souls dancing And the lover alone searches his heart for the meaning of the absence dreaming And a beautiful new rose bursts through the soil grasping and growing and yearning Why Love