stepping heavily, lame fate
Entered knocking not at the door,
And we live knowing not the times -
For a day and an instant, for an age and a hour.
quiet it is, the air's thin,
Thus it's the mean time of the End,
And memory, awaken, cries
And calls out forgotten names...
hadn't kneeled among the rest,
But in a plea that hadn't been heard
O, what a wounded name of yours
Remained... forever, that's, of yours!
by Elefwin © 1999
All rights remain exclusively with the author.