The days,
My mine did break,
I was imprisoned,
Destroyed,
Swept out of existence.
A boy lonely,
A sad one.
Craving to look once more,
Happy.
I was hopeless,
Feast soon my misery.
Divert me,
From this morbidity.
Last I could resist,
No longer,
I will confess,
With tears I went.

She loved me
And will love me
So for ever.
I pictured her,
There in her room
As she spoke,
Looked now at the dress,
At the veil
She was to wear tomorrow,
Then turned away.
If I had known
The last gift
I’d give to her
Would be a white doe,
I’d have given her more.
She did not smile,
She cried.
I do but speak the truth,
If you will have it.
Will you want
Such an old story?
She died in my arms
And nobody ever knew
She died before tomorrow.

I will not trouble you with,
Radical discomfort,
During my confinement,
I wrote you,
Knowledge of unprecedented,
Suffering and anxiety.

There in the heart of the woods,
Like the forgotten answer to a riddle,
Lost,
The very path forgotten,
Is the sleeping palace.
All around the seasons are awake,
Busy glass blades rise up in springs,
Sheaves are stacked in autumn,
In the veins of the leaf,
Misty vapour in the valley,
But in the sleeping palace,
Nothing moves at all,
Nothing dies;
Nothing returns.
Full of grey more like a picture,
Than the pictures on its walls.
Yes I say,
The palace is full of men and women,
Every one of them alive,
And every one asleep.
The Butler is in the pantry,
With a flask of his master’s wine.