She has a dying wish to see
the laughter she once knew,
to spring from the weak child's young face
before her spirit flew.
The squalid breath that mutters now
three words into the night-
Where are you? says the wispy form,
unheard, untouched by sight.
The Night engulfs her wanly stance
her face is sallow, worn-
the hands that once held love and warmth
are now rigid and torn.
The creased, unearthly sheet of skin
that is her only shawl,
proves to wither in the Wind's
most heartless, cruel drawl.
And yet she stands beneath the Moon,
so pale, solely alone-
and waits for her young flesh and blood
to make its way back home.
But the young spirit never speaks,
Death caught it long ago-
and yet the lady stands and waits,
refusing, weeping, No.
With one last wish she gazes forth
into the darkened sky,
and asks the heavens that are not
again, once more, a try
As she has but her dying wish
that granted, cannot be,
and thus she lays upon the soil
never again to flee.
And there she lies amidst the roots
of Trees that sheltered not,
never again to stand and try
or know how why or what.