What is it that no longer beats
lays upon the frozen waste of years
Dead to the knowledge that floods
like a sweeping gale that haunts the night
the restless sleep still finds
her in the midst of her wants
prisoner to her own deep needs
She shivers as she cries.
O weeping wail upon the gale
that so expresses her dying need
That her heart broken, desolate stands
A temple to her long lost love.

A' but if man could love as such
wear the world upon his might
seem indifferent to the pain that rips
tears deep the fragment of life
And leaves haunted and e'er so lonely.
We men have no might like theirs
that can wage the coldest, most barren of years
And therein still hold love true.

A woman sees with the eyes
the deep settled root of her own demise
She will bear it how ever long
for the love speaks louder more truer too
The soul than all words do to men.
For here they live it
they hold the balance of the primed self
Between the pride of dreams and romance.
The days, the years that so haunts their dwellings
Are the shackles of loves torment.

They walk on, these tender mercies of light
that brighten the days, tease gently the night
upon the fragment realm of dreams
That still come before their knight
Love wholly till the morning breaks
And light desolves into truth.
I hear upon the mantel of thoughts
the soft corridors of their souls
Surrounding our world, our thoughts
to them those Sirens of mortal flesh
Those holders of promised bliss.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph