dirty
grey clouds
flee
the angry
Arm
stretching
from the East.
Even in this place,
there must be a Spring....
even
in this place.
Green
things
grow
in
green pools -
things
that will never
live
to see
summer.
Even as I,
my mind
sighs....
even
as I.
What is spring
like
in the lands
I
left behind?
In soft,
quiet
surprise,
I find
I can no longer
summon
those places
to my mind.
Surely,
before I lay
upon this desolate
mountain-side,
this place wherein
grows
only despair,
surely
I knew light
and warmth,
bright leaves
shiny
with silver'd moon-light,
streams speaking more
of sweet
water songs
than
evil light
shining
from beautifully
dead faces.
Surely,
surely
I knew
music
and laughter,
merriment
fueled by dark ale,
fragrant smoke
rising.....
kindly faces
lit
by trees and fountains
that shone
like fire-flies
in blessed night.
I
know
these things.
Someone
speaks.
He speaks
to me
of them.
Here,
in this place
which must be home,
someone
puts their arms about me
and says a name
that no longer
holds me
within its
meaning.
Someone
looks
into my eyes
and
cries.
I do not
understand
why
he weeps,
but
the distant
voice
I hear
now and again
in dreams
whispers
that his eyes
are what
'leaves'
look like.
How I wish
to see
the leaves
once more.
