Speak not of glorious visions past.
The dark remorse of woe
into the nightly splendour fades,
Where now, I too must go.
Weep not the tears of duty here,
Nor utter words withheld
That may have given liberty,
And had the power to meld.
Fear is but a childish word
That fills the heart with dread,
No more will rage direct my path,
Nor turn this weary head.
The north wind blasts against my cheek
Where tears did fall, short time ago,
The salty streams have turned to ice,
Repentant floods no more will flow.
I see the dawn break splendidly,
It melts the air around,
And bends the flower’s head toward east,
In trance-like motion bound.
Copyright © Yvonne Evanoff | Year Posted 2011