The Widows Broom - Poem by Saint Eule
In a dusty room,
Once a lover nest,
Sat an old broom,
In a corner would rest.
Sweeping away tears,
Of the widows of war.
The lovers embrace,
Replaced by the whore.
The painful memory,
Of a groom that never returned.
In the stone is written,
Answers yet to be learned.
True love will never cease,
The nest, will only rest in peace.
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