Outside
the house a tempest blows,
moaning of
its own secret woes.
Next to the bed a candle glows,
but nearer
still, a shadow grows.
Mandos
is tall; his face is pale,
both young and ancient, wise and
hale.
The girl he sees is sick and frail:
her eyes betray a
tragic tale.
"Shh-shh,"
he whispers, bending near.
"I promise, you have naught to
fear."
His cool hand dries a falling tear
as his voice
soothes the dying ear.
Amid
the candle's guttering
and ceiling-shadows fluttering,
the
girl's thin frame is shuddering,
her voice broken and
stuttering.
"Please
spare my child," she begs him. "Pleaseā¦"
And at a glance,
the Doomsman sees
a tiny figure slowly freeze
as its soul from
its body flees.
The
mother trembles, stills and sighs,
the life-light dimming from her
eyes
while just outside the cold wind cries,
and by the bed,
the candle dies.
