The Song of She of the Twilight

Out under lonely stars the grey figurine slept.
Long she slept and deep she dreamt
And all the while her long fingers did weave
And weave the unseen strings between the stars
Like a magical net strewn with diamonds.
If we had ever seen or were to see her eyes
It would be sadness in our vision.

The person in her dreams, the king of her enchantment,
Whose memory alone kept those pale hands spinning,
Was dead, not ‘died’ or ‘passed away’ but gone
Gone forever in the realms of time lost at its dawning.
Ever wet are the cheeks of this hidden beauty,
Soft tears like wax on a lit candle.
Long hair as black as sin, as heavy as space and sky.

By no name was she known. Such grief was stronger
And seemed lost in an earth name.
She loved him with meaning in each of the four letters.
This witch of the twilight hour sinks each eve to night
Hoping that in its blackness she will find the way
Through the blackness of space to him.

She listens in the peaceful stillness for the echo of a voice,
His voice. But she hears forever only the song of a nightingale.
Wanting to wish, wishing her wanting.
A wishing star is her crown.
She hopes that soon time will reunite them,
So still does she weave and space expands
And the stars cherish her and worship her in their own echo:
The silver of their light, to the silver of her sorrow.

Jane Rita O’Shaughnessy                                                                                                                            

from Encounters with Dragons  
Chapter Five, The Dream of Lorn in the Forest Tegoth  

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