the town's Duchess,
the last of her grace and demeanor.
Nobody ever sung quite like her again,
or flung about their golden strings of hair,
away away into the day.
How she watched the stars at night,
and silenced all the village's cries,
singing to them, and never arose any fright.
She is long gone now,
and lies like a frame,
still in the ever-living beauty
that waited behind those coronation doors.
Now once a year
by this rock and stone path ,
I seek out her tomb and shed my tears,
I listen for her songs,
soft lullabies turned to quiet knells,
of sweet sorrow and her drifted honey fragrance,
burried under the earths' brown rivers.
May you whisper onto Charon, I have been waiting by his ferryboat,
to pay the duchesses tupence.
Oct 28, 2025
Oct 28, 2025 at 8:28 AM UTC
the town's Duchess,
the last of her grace and demeanor.
Nobody ever sung quite like her again,
or flung about their golden strings of hair,
away away into the day.
How she watched the stars at night,
and silenced all the village's cries,
singing to them, and never arose any fright.
She is long gone now,
and lies like a frame,
still in the ever-living beauty
that waited behind those coronation doors.
Now once a year
by this rock and stone path ,
I seek out her tomb and shed my tears,
I listen for her songs,
soft lullabies turned to quiet knells,
of sweet sorrow and her drifted honey fragrance,
burried under the earths' brown rivers.
May you whisper onto Charon, I have been waiting by his ferryboat,
to pay the duchesses tupence.
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