Scarlet Trace

The gray dawn trembles on cold, wet stone,
The wires hum softly at the hush’s edge.
Far off, a field where fallen stars lay lone —
Red poppies bloom, the aftertrace of pain.

Oh poppies burn — a scarlet trace of light,
As if the soul had blossomed in the gloom.
You are the whisper that survived the night —
A burning letter folded in my room.

Streetlights die, they leave but shadows on the paving,
The fog drinks footsteps like a voiceless prayer.
I hear your voice — wind through the withered rowan waving,
And smell the fields where we once breathed dreamlike air.

Oh poppies burn — a scarlet trace of light,
As if the soul had blossomed in the gloom.
You are the whisper that survived the night —
A burning letter folded in my room.

And if this love is just a heavenly lie,
Then let that lie last longer than the day.
Let winds carry my voice like leaves that fly,
But poppies in my chest will never fade away.

Gray dawn, the wires still sing their low refrain,
One scarlet bloom alone among the grain.
No words, no answers, no returning years for me —
Just salt, and the soft trace of what used to be.