She sits alone in forests green,
in vales with dying light,
her once bright eyes now dark with pain,
white hands upon her bosom lain
in misty twilit night.
Across the road the birds sing sweet,
a soft wind fills the air.
But her ears are shut, and she is caught
within a web of woven thought
and cloud of silver fair.
A star comes out, the first yet last
to look upon her form.
And there, still glowing in the night,
there lies her silky raiment white,
but tattered now and torn.
Her clouded mind soon wanders back
across the bridge of time
to wistful, golden, bygone days,
though vanished now in smoky haze,
forever did she pine.
“Why did he not return for me?”
she cries into the night.
An answer comes not to her cry,
though in despair, her eyes are dry
and will not see the light.
A wind from lands of green and gold
comes rushing past her face,
to thus relieve her wounded heart
from icy blade and poison dart
and set her in her place.
But falls it upon deafened ears;
her grief is far too deep.
The moon has waned, the stars are gone,
and she is left: the lonely one,
and falls she into sleep.
Soft footfalls then are heard near her:
a warrior coming home.
Her lover who she thought was dead
kneels gently down beside her head
which lies soft in the loam.
But then he stops and looks on her
and cries aloud in grief,
for at last she takes her final breath
and lies before the gates of death,
and stirs not any leaf.
He lays him down nearby her then;
his final breath he takes,
and still he lies there by her side
to share the fate which him denied
from which she never wakes.
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