The last time I saw her face, her eyes were bathed in starlight and her hair hung long.
The last time she spoke to me her lips were like the scented flowers inside a rain-drenched forest.
But that was so long ago that I can scarcely feel the way I felt before,
and if time could heal the wounds, I would tear the threads away that I might bleed some more.

The last time I walked with her,
her laughter was the steeple bells that ring to greet the morning sun,
a voice that called to everyone to love the ground she walked upon, those were good days.

The last time I held her hand, her touch was autumn, spring and summer, and winter too.
The last time I let go of her, she walked a way into the night.
I lost her in the misty streets, a thousand months, a thousand miles.
When other lips will kiss her eyes a million miles beyond the moon, that's where she is.
But that was so long ago that I can scarcely feel the way I felt before,
and if time could heal the wounds, I would tear the threads away that I might bleed some more.

The last time I saw her face, her eyes were bathed in starlight and she walked alone.
The last time she kissed my cheek, her lips were like the wilted leaves
upon the autumn covered hills, resting on the frozen ground.
The seeds of love lie cold and still beneath a battered marking stone, it lies forgotten.