past

He was my North, my South, my East, my West.
My working week and my Sunday
rest.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.
I thought love would last
forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now，put out every one.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour out the ocean and sweep up
the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good.