She says the world is black and white
and grey is an illusion,
and yet she dreams in fireflies
and rainbow hued confusion.

She says the stars are gasping holes
that beg for bread and water,
and yet she stares at the milky-way
so in love I dare not stop her.

She says that life is made for death,
and death makes us reclusive,
and yet she plays the field of love
and death finds her elusive.

But what’s to come she will not say
and no one can convince her
to sing and laugh and dance and play
until the end of winter.