When the light of you but trickles
instead of shining in the dark,
When your smile is for you, only,
and your night is just too stark
And you sense nothing is waiting,
that tomorrow is not there,
Then, at last you can forgive love
that must end in bleak despair.
So entwined had been their living,
their very beings, being one,
That neither could imagine life
without the other one.
Now they both have started racing
against the other to the grave,
Each despairing of their selfish act:
fleeing what they cannot save.
A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.