The creased page is in the rear
And I look forward to you my dear

Another flower sprouts on an old grave
Hiding within this shrinking enclave

If life and love need compost
These broken hearts, these rotten ghosts

For sprouting blooms attain towards sun
I see it there but my feet won't run

A holding hand my only dictate
To join, entwine, to read our fate

The light, the white, the free, the fair
A turning page, smell of musty air

The creased page is in the rear
And I look forward with you my dear