Page 15 - Contrast1984v26
P. 15
The sun sinks flaming in the west
And her heart beats, pounding in her breast.
The fields have turned to a golden brown
And the flocks of wild geese come down
Until he returns from the blood red
Sea, whether he be living or dead.
One last time she must tread the long hill
To see if her grief has drunk its fill.
The old carven figure, still as stone,
Is cracked, wrinkled skin and brittle bone;
Very near her bitter end. Twisted
Soul, purged of hope, has oft resisted
Death; using chisels made from the winds
That blow much tainted with all past sins.
Fell figure, hooded and stinking, reaches
For the heart in any he breaches.
