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Bucephale, may you change your heart?
It's not okay, well, it's not the end.
I, moving through hornbeams,
The chords are old, so are the trees.

You wear your heart under your sleeve,
You learned that earlier than me.
"I tried so hard to be good",
you told yourself it's in the books.

You fear for what faded already,
You fall in line. Oh malcontent.
Happiness is yours, still absently.

I strived to write the poem down,
Words just play and disobey.
None of mine can explain that,
It's far too late, I can't create.

Amongst those trees I'm almost home.

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