As peach clouds sweep the sky
behind the intricate lace of branches,
my raven-haired sister
tenderly holds a patch of thought.

Dylan sings behind us:

People tell me it's a sin
To know and feel too much within.
I still believe she was my twin,
but I lost the ring.
She was born in spring, but I was born too late.
Blame it on a simple twist of fate.