It makes no difference if the birds still sing, 

If they take flight upon delicate wing, 

If the sun shines warm in Fall or Spring, 

Or if she once thought you a kindly king. 

For to others she still desires to cling, 

And wishes for naught but a brute’s ring, 

Her hatred remains like a silent wasp does sting, 

As she works still to kill you, to pull your death string. 

Your love never meant anything.