The White Lady

Out past the beacon
Out into the mark
Let the horses run
It is no crime to be free.

Three of us
All young together,
Roan horse, black and bay
Now alone I lead out the grey.

On the snowy upland
The ghost-wind cries
Where are you now?
Exiled, dead, forgotten.

I’ll be a ghost one day
Old before my time,
My sword exchange for needlework
For freedom is a crime.

The White Lady
They call me, as if
I were a white plague laid in death
Or a frost on lilies.

Nothing living, nothing warm
Like his hand gently laid
On her parting gift
And a horseman’s parting kiss.

- Varda