The mist of time on holy even grounds
Brown leaves on rotten fields of midnight past
When fall is done to move in larking sounds
Her falling hair will wither shining last
To travel north in Winter pale and dark
With only her herself and meeting none
Horizons pass in circles leaving spark
At day the travellée avoids the Sun
For night with darkness shadows make her fates
Appearance hides her moving mind till dawn
There shaking hands at graveyard iron gates
When tired branches guide towards her lawn
        See freshly opened ground on covered roots
        And leaving mourners turn their dirty boots.

        © Dominik Alexander / 2020