The girl is lost, in the tawny wheat of the steppes,
in the cold waters of the river washing past,
in the ruins of the city and corpses their.
The girl is lost, and I am lost, the world burned.
We hold close in the empty field in the summer after,
holding on like drowning sailors to driftwood.
The games we played are echoes in dreams
and voices and laughter half-remembered,
a phantasm of something lost.
The first kiss as we swam in the cold river.
Chasing each other through the tall wheat.
Looking up and the endless stars.
The girl is lost, and I am lost, our world burned.
The cannons and gunfire is silent for now.
The city built again.
It is the summer after, and we hold close,
her head laying upon my shoulder as she sleeps,
and I look up at stars that have never seemed so distant.