The Vermillion Windowpane

Her hair breathed the color of his love

His love a bloody red

Stubborn it remains

On this window sill of roses

Unscathed it seems of its past

But she waits 

Behind the vermillion window pane

Feeling the traces of his finger

In the dust 

She waits 

But she knows

That a man once left for war

Can only gift the color of his love

And no more

His love a dauntless red

Perhaps, 

He might return

Through this vermillion window pane.