The will to love

Is it the light slipping quickly
through the flitting leaves,
whose swiftness deems it
blindingly sharp?
Is it the cool of the spring's
evening air that freezes the warmth
of the hills' cold and stoney heart

Could the absence of love
be the valley in which
her soul drowns in
the early morning's gray fog
Is it the night, or its loneliness,
that chases her heart from
the hands of hope and love

Where is the will
the wanting and the thrill
for it seems gone from here
where is her soul now beating
Was it stolen by the man who lied
mangled by the one who cried
Has it withered in the famine's wealth of hunger?

The light slips through the flitting leaves
but this time it failed to blind her
for she is gone from this old place
and so the light must wander
In the hidden branches of my sweet shade tree, 
hides a sweet baby bird from his enemy
as the light quietly fades into night (where it will surely find her)