I walk this beaten path of wood and stone.
‘Tis not a ghost nor creature I am known.
Her golden hair and eyes of fire imbue.
Time rests upon the castle birds unflown.
I share with her the mist of morning gray,
Of dark and ceaseless winds of pure dismay.
From withered, lifeless skin, the blood be mourned.
To love her once more upon death’s new day.