Each note played. A dirge, flickering
luminous above my haunted apparition,
the wight told of in tales yet to come.

A mist travels low tonight in the tombs.
It holds the grass in stasis, like a frigid
spirit, bitter and rampant.

Alas my dear! Too young. Too bold. Too
naive, and yet... wisdom pours from your
veins in rivulets of silver tongues.

And I, standing by unseen in the barrows,
unable to mourn, unable to bear witness
to your fall from this pale earth... I cry.
A shattering sound of heartache and loss
to make even old wives quiver in their
tales.

Ah, my love. My heart. My warmth.

Visit me not, I beg. Do not grieve for me.

Remember the words written on my
tomb. Recall what I told you. These words...

'The wanderer wanders. He waits ahead'.