broken heart poem

i am singing to you
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
stir
rocked in the cradle of the deep
to the passionate lover
do the boys and girls still go
the long resounding marble corridors
gone are the three, those sisters rare
and my name is truthful
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
weak-winged is song
braided and woven
beneath my window in a city street