Within the veil of time and drowned-out shade,
drawn by the thirst of sunset’s fading flame,
among sad eyes where spring’s first waters played,
and youth lies hidden by a bridal name,
an uninvited guest - the spell’s dark bride,
the bearer of death’s silent sign and vow -
awaited her, as sheep await their guide,
his staff prepared for grey-haired nuptial now.
The old one beckons, rasping, darkly sweet,
enticing toward the torment past the door;
and takes her firmly by the fragile sleeve,
entwining loss she cannot flee once more.
Capricious, all-powerful is the choice
that falls on those whose trembling voices fade,
where Christ’s protection weakens in its force,
and mortal breath grows frightened and afraid.
And fallen dreams - her only consolation -
may bloom again in some eternal land,
or vanish westward, lost in desolation,
carried away by death’s relentless hand.
After the painting by Hans Baldung