Bucephale, may you change your heart?
It's not okay, well, it's not the end
I, moving through hornbeams
The chords are old, so are the trees

You wear your heart under your sleeve
You learned that earlier than me
"I tried so hard to be good"
You told yourself it's in the books

You fear for what faded already
You fall in line. Oh malcontent
Happiness is yours, still absently

I strived to write the poem down
Words just play and disobey
None of mine can explain that
It's far too late, I can't create

Amongst those trees I'm almost home