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Stains of sorrow from ages past
capture frost within the haze.
 A spirit scarred, of treasures stripped,
It yearns to find the way.

Haunted by a stillness cruel,
this wanderer amongst the trees.
Solemn, aching, silently–
she fades into the breeze.

54 replies »

  1. There are many out in our world who live such spectral lives…, born with nothing, passing through life with nothing, and leaving this world without a trace. Sad. A beautifully written poem though, Phoebe. 🙂

  2. Kinda Keatsian … can’t resist quoting the end of ‘La Belle Dame’, sorry …

    She took me to her Elfin grot,
           And there she wept and sighed full sore,
    And there I shut her wild wild eyes
           With kisses four.

    And there she lullèd me asleep,
           And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
    The latest dream I ever dreamt
           On the cold hill side.

    I saw pale kings and princes too,
           Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
    They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
           Thee hath in thrall!’

    I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
           With horrid warning gapèd wide,
    And I awoke and found me here,
           On the cold hill’s side.

    And this is why I sojourn here,
           Alone and palely loitering,
    Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
           And no birds sing.

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