I think of my love in the robes of September,
A thing lost in beauty, a place I remember,
My love, oh my love, was the sycamore tree
That bent in the swaying blue lights of the sea.
There, tangled with tumult, impassioned by prayer,
I sat on a stone with the wind in my hair
As it whispered sweet nothings of summers long gone
In the prestige of night and the promise of dawn.
The winter blows bleakly, but nobody sees
The tears that I shed for my sycamore tree
The leaves that I held in the palm of my hand
And the song of the sea in the frost of the land.