The Tragic Light of Winter

Blood floawting, Pain in shouting.. Cut from crying..

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1. Red rose of crying Blood..

 

He remembered it well, as if it happened the day just before.
A rose on the coffin, so deeply red, as blood dripping from his arm.

The body of his, was no longer. Tried to hide it. Hide the sorrow of the love he once used to feel.
She so often told him, that his hair looked so much better, loose. So that's what it was the day.
The day, in the tragic light of winther.


Had she just told him, perhaps his feeling of sadness, would be more perfect, less cold and inaffective.

The cello she used to play, stood in the darkest corner of the room, waiting.
His mother used to blame her, for beeing, ”not the right one for him”, and perhaps sometime, which seemed like ages ago, he believed in the careless words of hers.

He met her in the park, during his usual walk. Some years ago, a noon in november.
She sat alone on the bench, and he could see, that she had cried.

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