Dark Winter Light
Swirling, twirling, purely white,
Snow flakes falling gently below
The darkness is illuminated from the
Forming carpet of snow
Like a handful of nightingale feathers,
No artificial light.
His footsteps mark the path of his life
His silhouette outlines the essence of his being
Deep down, a lonely soul cries out for comfort
Distorted from suffering, heart bleeding
Red Roses' pedals strewing the soft, tempting floor
And when he reaches his destination
The stone is still upon its mound
And without a single moment's hesitation
Ties a ribbon of heavy black silk
Around his heart
And places it to the ground
His soul has escaped, soaring high
For the prints of his life are long gone
The strewn path of his life is covered up, shy,
But not vanished, simply a deed finished, done.
Yet the small form of crimson will glow
Protecting its stone
As the carvings fade away
It will lie, pulsing,
Will somebody know?
For the trees will whisper
The secret of his last night
How he illuminated the darkness,
No artificial light.