The meadow is
hidden deep within the shadowy glen,
Allowed its freedom,
by the forest wars.
In the center,
a dwelling stands,
like an old weathered man,
full of sorrow.

Bathed in moonlight
the clearing sits
a sadness mirrored
only by what is within.
The wispy curtains,
Of tired and tattered lace,
the chipped and weathered door,
Once strong and proud
now long neglected,
and bathed in tears.

Suddenly, the stillness broken,
the door, long unused,
opened its mouth
to reveal a silvery bloom
among the thorns.
She seems dressed in moonbeams
with stars for her hair.
Long and plaited,
with many locks escaping
from nights of longing.

Like the many tears
that stained her face,
so she seemed to flow down the hill,
bathed in star and moonlight.
The wind is quiet,
the night birds quiet their song
for sorrow has met that night.
Down the knoll,
she is met by a miller"s pond.
Shrouded in lilies
the color of the stars.
On the old and weathered bridge,
she stood,
entwined in vines and light
watching the past
arise and vanish among the ripples,
from her falling tears.

In her soft and silky palm,
she clutched
the manifestation of her distress,
its message already blurred
by nights of sadness and pain.

He would not return to her
Never again
Would she feel his breath upon her cheek.
Never again,
Would he hold her in his arms.
Never again
Would she hear
"I love you"
Spoken with at soft and gentle kiss
He was stolen from her world.

Down it fell,
like a dieing leaf in autumn,
silently drifting to eternity
beneath the milky glass
its message mingling with the ripples.

Maybe it was fated,
written among the stars,
that she be called Ophelia,
but silently she too did slip
beneath the milky silence
to once again be with her love.
The pain of longing
spread and vanished among the lilies and moonlight.

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