An old, decrepit house sits on this hill.

Its greyness creaks with bunching, broken wood;

its memories hold naught but woe and ill,

the cold of long-forgotten wintry good.

The house is like my shell of love for you,

your fair is all but gone and bout to die;

I look upon your memories with rue,

and wish you joy and no more cause to cry.

Perhaps in time this house will be rebuilt,

the hearth relit, its ancient timbers warm

(though always will one side be on a tilt)

and inside, it shall not be so forlorn.

But always shall the structure be the same

changed ever since the fateful day you came.