Mist slithers 'round the roots,
Like reaching dead men's fingers
Grasping wraith-like for the lives that they've lost.
The mirthful sound of pleasant lutes
In this place no further lingers,
Replaced with sombre silence, cold as frost.
The trees reaching yet still higher,
Away from this mouldering mire:
To that which they too cannot attain;
Their source of life, the soothing rain.
The trees' call heard from above,
Dark clouds let loose a solemn monsoon;
The pattering rain clothes all in grey.
Though this place be lost for love,
And despite the soft drumming, droplet tune,
Forever still is this cadaverous array.
Trees black from time's long march,
Stand like sentinels of this ruined arch;
A home of men, long forgotten,
It's present state thusly begotten.
How like of man to abandon the past;
Looking always boldly ahead,
Or at least that is what they say.
They remember truly to the last,
Suppressing fast their failures instead;
To remember just success is their way.
Silent secrets held in