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 .
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