Through fifty years tight buds would swell
Down fifty years sweet blossoms fell.
Tears enough shall balance humour
let poetry narrate disaster.

Quite dead, to our lawn, the bird fell. 
Put in each heart a myth to retell.
As if each one a feather took
and privately pressed it in a book.

Of this each one now stands accused:
secret keeping and hidden views.
For fifty years are felt not long
to dispute the words of a plain song.

Now some have travelled far away
and some have passed their mortal day.
And all those left feel they are right
sad how the others lack insight.

Well may they reach out, but forlorn
the child, shocked, standing on the lawn
will bend and take its own feather
its heart all its own forever.