Celtic Legend by Eliza Witte - HTML preview
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Lament
The grass was slowly turning yellow.
The breeze was moaning from the sea.
The wind – unknown and peaceful fellow –
Would chase away the memory.
The coffin, white like pure tear, A single rose in red was dressed.
Love mocks, love kills, but love would triumph Despite its temporary rest.
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They Who Dance Upon The Meadow They who dance upon the meadow...
Lush green grass does bow beneath.
Blades do struggle with the shadows For kisses poisonous but sweet.
The manes embrace the cold wind’s threads.
The warmth of life a story tells Where fight will be recalled instead Of braided hair where daisies dwell.
The breath – the anger born in it.
The dance is faster. Speed will soothe Hatred and infernal heat In dreams about the stolen youth.
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