Vera

Her bright flowers of youth.

To live in a far country she would not, unless for fate. Yet so it happened. The day her lover died was a sordid day. He was shot in the woods, unattended to. As she gathered woods in the night, there on the ground he laid.

She continued to weep along the path. However, the bird spotted her and came back that same night. “Look at the window. There it sat again and sang to mourn the dead?” She said to herself.

She replied: “My fair bringer. When shall I lie? When shall I dream a golden dream? The paths have been blocked. Since he left, it’s as if tomorrow is tied to nothing, for the yellow star he gave me. I only hope to see a new day without recess.”

Wishes were fair.

As she went home, she recalled the song he taught her the night of their love, when he embraced her in the woods. “My dear, my dear, the pipers still piped. The night is fair, the eve’s still bright. Clean the tears, my vow is strong.”

A fair bringer.

Each day, before she departed those shores, he visited. Though he wept all night, perched on her window sill. The past to her is as if mixed in clay. He came back as a bird. Did she believe in magic, or if it’s corrupted? However she took it, she understood it, a hard token. She knew without a shred of doubt her beloved still lived on in the glory fair.