Friday, January 30, 2015


[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

I behold the world from far away,
as through a window; the light of day,
subdued behind a mountain chain,
can scarcely pierce the windowpane.

The milky heavens, drained of gold,
at times send raindrops, fierce and cold;
the wind speaks to the sleeping trees
of distant winter tragedies.

A river of starlings hurries past
on some grand quest; they briefly cast
their fluttering shadows on the ground,
then pass away without a sound.

Night is creeping across the grass,
the world slips further from the glass;
a candle is lit within the room
against the swiftly gathering gloom.

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