 |
A lad who was joy-filled, the luckiest man.
Had a lass who accepted his hand, in marrage and in 'ever
How happy he was, 'Till that grim, fated day they were broken apart.
'Twas a bleak winter day, the harshest it was. The lass was taken, to the life-after.
Her corps was spread, awaiting the flame. As the lad stood there, gazing in shame.
He felt she could have, should have been saved. He weeped and he mourned as the pastor had read, the last rites to the departed dead. Then set aflame, he mourned all the more. His heart was filled with sorrow, sorrow for the lost Selene.
Her fair and radient flesh, so fresh in the passing season air.
His eyes, they weep. Alone he remains. The solomn breeze licks at the burning flame. From the funeral pyre arose,
a stately, gallant bird, appearing like fire. Flitting, fluttering above the burning Selene.
"'Tis thine own imagination..." said he "This chimeric figure, undoubtingly, is false."
"Hold thy toung!" the shining creature had said "Thou mind is neither sound, nor sane. Thy name is Phoe, thine will is to give refuge to the poor of soul."
"This cannot occur, this cannot be. Please go away, away from me!"
"How disrespectful, how abrupt! You silly fool, doth thou have no mores?"
It went up to him, and lent him a wing. "Take thy feather, charish it well. 'Tis all I can do, I bid you no Hell... Thy feather will show thee, from time to time, the way to be free from the angst of thine, benevolent heart."
He plucked out a pinion, of the emberous bird. The plumage blazed, but burned not. He gazed at the feather amazed, bewildered. He peered back, hoping to see, the phoenix-like beast. He saw nothing but the smoldering funeral pyre, the snow drifting in the breeze, and nothing more...
|
 |
