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(…)

Now I must be buried, ere my time is past.
And shall love ye, though I breathe my last.
And will you offer but a prayer
For a grave that’s half so fair?
Will you bring but a thorn; denying the bloom,
As never would I deny such perfume?
Deny me those charms as you leave,
It is for such things that I shall grieve.

I longed to see you in your own eyes
So lost was I in those auburn dyes
And the rivers ceased to flow
Time stood so still or seemed to slow
When I looked into you as I died
With the thorn you brought laid aside
But as I lay upon this lonesome bed of nails
I saw nothing through the blackness of our veils.

Alas! What once was a gaze so fair,
Then concealed, became a vacant stare.
My soul pierced by that look so drear
As Death to my weeping blood drew near
Was the thorn that, with poisonous dart,
Rekindled the love for you in my heart.
And as the other shore roared revealed
Time stood still, through your gaze concealed,
And before my eyes, life played itself anew,
And I prayed for a second life, a better life with you.

© 2021 Marten Hoyle