Your hand is beyond all touch.
Your eyes, they will never dance again.
Oh, my soul, it does not recover,
Your soul I no longer discover.

The trees, they wave their goodbyes to the passing storm,
They wave their goodbyes to the receding dawn.
But I…I say my goodbyes to the thorns,
To the thorns, as I mourn.

All Poetry — Henry Barnard

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