thinkingsam
03-15-2009, 11:18 PM
I wrote this some time ago, inspired by an image of a pale girl walking slowly through the forest...
The Shadow of One's Heart (http://thinkingcities.blogspot.com/2009/02/shadow-of-ones-heart.html)
There is a girl in the forest before the awakening of the morning:
Her name is The Shadow of One's Heart.
She is wearing a cloak that shimmers of the colours of the night:
The deep black beyond the stars,
Now the brown of old leaves and branches,
Now the green of leaves in the dark,
Sometimes as she walks slowly, slowly, slowly
You see stars gleam, then fade in the fabric of her dark cloak
Her head is covered by a hood of the night, but oh what you see of her:
Shadow is pale, and her face marks no passing emotion;
Almost stoic, with a porcelain frailty, almost sad.
You see beneath the surface, observer.
There is a pool in the forest in the light of the full moon:
Its waters are called The Bitter of Sorrow.
You tremble as trees rustle, murmur, argue, in the wake of a cold wind
fiery furnace, sweet daughter of night,
you have a tale to tell the waters, Beloved One,
Shadow come
Her pale feet touch the waters, and a single ripple is sent gliding across the surface
tell us your story, Wizened One.
Shadow's cloak shimmers in the darkest colours as her fragile hands lift her hood.
Hands that now enter the Water, feeling, remembering,
Her eyes are closed
She bows imperceptibly slowly, slowly to the Bitter of Sorrow,
You see her lips: they are pale, carved out of marble and diamonds,
Touched by the warmth of the heat of the moonlight,
She kisses the waters.
You can no longer see her porcelain face,
But deep down, you know, the shadow is sobbing.
The Shadow of One's Heart (http://thinkingcities.blogspot.com/2009/02/shadow-of-ones-heart.html)
There is a girl in the forest before the awakening of the morning:
Her name is The Shadow of One's Heart.
She is wearing a cloak that shimmers of the colours of the night:
The deep black beyond the stars,
Now the brown of old leaves and branches,
Now the green of leaves in the dark,
Sometimes as she walks slowly, slowly, slowly
You see stars gleam, then fade in the fabric of her dark cloak
Her head is covered by a hood of the night, but oh what you see of her:
Shadow is pale, and her face marks no passing emotion;
Almost stoic, with a porcelain frailty, almost sad.
You see beneath the surface, observer.
There is a pool in the forest in the light of the full moon:
Its waters are called The Bitter of Sorrow.
You tremble as trees rustle, murmur, argue, in the wake of a cold wind
fiery furnace, sweet daughter of night,
you have a tale to tell the waters, Beloved One,
Shadow come
Her pale feet touch the waters, and a single ripple is sent gliding across the surface
tell us your story, Wizened One.
Shadow's cloak shimmers in the darkest colours as her fragile hands lift her hood.
Hands that now enter the Water, feeling, remembering,
Her eyes are closed
She bows imperceptibly slowly, slowly to the Bitter of Sorrow,
You see her lips: they are pale, carved out of marble and diamonds,
Touched by the warmth of the heat of the moonlight,
She kisses the waters.
You can no longer see her porcelain face,
But deep down, you know, the shadow is sobbing.