Melancholia

She was all of sixteen, not yet a woman, no longer a girl. In her eyes I saw the prospect of a happy light, the coming flight of a joyous swan.

And yet, like so many of us, she was luckless. Luckless in the manner of a misguided arrow, her efforts always vanishing into the forgotten unknown. No bard sang of her. No man could keep her.

Tired, she jumped into the arms of an ugly notion, of heaven and hell, and godly motion. Her hair got shorn, her robe got saffron. I said my goodbyes, watching this angel fall from the skies.

What she did and where she went is not in my mind. I had dived into the worldly waters, she’d taken her austere flight. Spring came and spring went; my life without her presence was spent.

Now, the darkness fades, the heavens banish their godless child. After wrinkly years, she’s again in my sight. But, in her eyes I see the growing shadow of a deathly night, the approaching footsteps of eternal silence. She is all of sixty, no longer a woman, not yet a spirit.