Standing on the old stone bridge, that spans the timeless, reedy stream,
flowing soft; I gaze, and ponder on a love that might have been.
I watch the gentle eddies quietly spinning round until they die,
fading into nothingness... like hopes, once spun by you, and I.

A breeze moves soft, across the water, tugging at its glassy sheen;
trailing whispering ripples all across the mirror of the stream;
and yet, it is enough... a faint disturbance of the harmony;
how like... this hope of love we had; yet knowing it could never be.

The reedy borders of the stream rustle in this impudent breeze
that seems to spring from no-where... for, there is no movement in the trees;
how like... the tiny doubts that crept into this love; for, it would seem
from no-where, was this shadow cast... across the landscape of our dreams.

And, yet... the stream goes drifting on; soft babbling, in its gentle flow,
carrying my thoughts away... away, to where... I cannot know.
I know that we both recognized the melody to love's old song...
perhaps, it was the tempo... or the lyrics, that we just got wrong.

The Western sky is painted gold now, by the swiftly sinking sun;
I gaze back down into the water... timeless, in its gentle run,
gliding quietly ever onwards... just a little reedy stream...
that listened to my silent words about a love, that might have been.