The mists grasp at me
like a lover’s embrace
cold and clingy,
and I can’t help but weep
because they will not carry me to You.

Soft is the light glow
like the gaslights of old
in the chill London fog,
so too is my heart
this night
and every night
for You are not there
to receive my soul.

Burdens, bearings of a world
old and dim
lackluster in the grey chill
and white mist
Where are You, O Sun of my heart,
to drive this dampness far from me?

I remember those glorydays
sunny days and bright,
but those memories too
are tinged in mildew
from the incessant fogs
that surround my barren, aching heart
in their wan and pallid imitation of life

Like the inside of a grave
in the rain
are my thoughts and my actions:
cold and old and moldy,
must of a thousand years forgotten
by the Sun, by the Glorious One

The drenched and dead leaves pluck
like strings at me;
too, I remember their bright green shining
in the days gone past
before You left
and the world ceased to Be.
Come again, bright Day’s Son
and air out the hidden chamber
and halls that You alone
can unlock.
For they are too long forgotten.

(c) Nicanthiel Hræfnhild 2009


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