The loss...

The evening breeze had cauzed this drift,
Unintentionally was made a rift,
As though the settling ball of fire had burnt Canace's wing,
And thus itz untamed anger hath cauzed the suffering!

Flew along with it, velvets of a fine rose,
Plucked; they were, so pain; the suffering bore!
Bathed in orange-purple hue,
Far away the little one flew.
With dawn settled the morning dew.
Litle tears were those,
About which nobody knew!