I bid you, do not trip
On coattails, caught beneath
The bowers cool at noonday sun.
If you must go, I hope you run.
Hear then behind the frosted glass,
The voices dull, devoid of song.
If you find that love is hard, you do it wrong.
And there upon a hill
The toddlers play, the adults cry,
From sadness or from ice, I do not know.
Against a tombstone piles the snow.
There are no smiles,
We are not strong, but
If you find that love is hard, you do it wrong.
Many Worlds Theory 