The morning is mourning
The loss of every shining star

While the evening is leavening
With gems studded on a ceiling of tar

The morning has forgotten
It glows from starlight

While the evening doesn’t remember
It has lost the brightest of stars

So the mornings are sad
And the evenings happy

I wonder,

How much of our sorrow
Is in not remembering what we have

How much of our happiness
In not remembering what we have lost?