Maiden, maiden
With locks of hazel
And skin of pearly white,
I beckon you, dearest beauty.
I present to you a rose.

But what is this?
The rose does wilt,
As if smothered by winter’s grasp.
Had I not plucked it a moment ago?
What spell or trick is this?

If only I were to see your eyes,
The eyes of an angel fallen.
I beseech to you vulnerably,
Yet your eyes never stray from your lap.

And what purpose do you have
On that boat in placid waters.
I pray, come, my pet,
For these mists are friends foremost
And undertakers in due time.

And yet not a word has escaped
Your rosy lips, fairest maiden.
‘Tis silent as death, this marsh.
I doubt your senses are dulled.

You hang your head as a holy sister,
But in mourning or not, I am unknowing
Speak of your pain, and I shall remedy;
Your wish is all I require.

Still, my lady, your voice is unheard.
To heal a foreign wound would be, at best,
Foolish, but perhaps, with your invisible lyre,
I can ascertain what is needed:
You, my delicate flower, can be saved
If you, in turn, save me.

I was blind before but not now.
No doubt, my lady, the frill of your dress
Reigns above all else, the grains of wood
On the boat’s hull is what you fancy most.
I see it now, true as every morn’s dawn.

Before my eyes this very moment,
I see but a mirror, and on the other side,
True beauty, beauty admired from a far,
Beauty to tease the poor souls who reach
And wish for something more than frigid glass.