Mourners

Meagre trees in the shrouds,

as olde as the stones....

Mourners of abandoned love,

fornever their woes shall grow silent.

O how many times may the moon has shone -

reflected in these black lakes?

Should it be that we can hear,

the woes of those who ceased their lifes?

O so old they are...

they bare the neverending grief...

Age-old miserability

Ancient bitter beauty

Lost is the hope of those,

who walk the moors with pain in heart.

..and all joy it sinks,

burried deep, forever presumed dead.

O so old they are...

they bare the neverending grief...

Age - old miserability,

a bitter beauty thrilling me