The land beyond the forest, cool and twilight.
A river flows there, cold and grey and clear.
That misty and distant land I dream of,
And I dream of it more with every passing year.
Quiet and with hushed calls, of angels and beasts.
Quiet, where the thoughts fade and dreams flicker.
I covet quiet and stillness and the cool of autumn morn,
And wish for it to come for me, every steady, every quicker.
A face there, of a woman, distant and stern, but so loving.
An angel abscences and departures, and being whole again.
A calloused hand, like that hand washed yours in their own,
And wipe away every tear, but told no lies, never that sin.
A forest, thought in the droplets of mist, to be won by god,
And remembered in dreams of those who sleep there.
Those besotted kingdoms, those mysterious passions,
Those things clean in unknowing, and lost in knowledgeable despair.
I know she is there, the angel of remorse and dignity and laughter.
Furies take the blood, she takes the fragile and holy, no skin at all.
Divy up that which brought grace to my heart, and love to the palace.
Leave the pitted fruit, so a seed may grow, to tempt a fortuitous fall.