she...

A face so pale, never did I see;

Closing behind a pall of gloom,

Sunken deep in a field of blue,

Reaped by the plough of misfortune.

Tightened fists and hardened jaws,

Eyes dipped in tears of toils,

‘If only I could help’

Water filled the shores of my eyes.

The saying abashed her,

As if fell from moon,

For the sole shelter of care and joy,

Washed away by misfortune.

Wanderer will she become,

Or thief, I do not know;

Or a loon on roadside night,

Taking delight in cutting veins?

I saw and saw, and yet could not do,

For things I own not,

Neither do I rule.

‘Stay well poor creature’

Is all I can say,

For words fail me, in such a sight,

Of gloom and utter dismay.

A vow in my heart,

Which I do take,

Yet certainty is unsure,

Of helping such ‘ creatures’

In distant future,

If again I ever do behold.