Don't tell me that you're leaving
without giving fair warning,
drop hints as little bread crumbs
that lead me to a dawning
where each rose is a narcis,
where each heart is a cloud,
where each cake is a tartlet,
and each wing is a shroud.
The candy house we've lived in
-- don't burn it down to ashes,
we'll not go out in thunder,
we'll not go out in clashes,
but with a gentle sighing,
and with a simple dance,
for after tender trying,
we'll step out of our trance.
It needn't be too painful
-- we'll put the house on sale,
we'll break our battered laughter,
we'll end our fairytale;
our hopes will be behind us,
our unborn kids, our sun deck,
we'll gently ease on homewards,
limp flotsam from a shipwreck.