I have walked by grey
rivers
and heard the
weeping of women.
I have sat under forest
leaves
dripping with
blood. I have been among
gypsies
with
gold and silver
on my
palm;
but it’s late now,
for my lover
sleeps,
and the stones have no
voices. only yesterday
I lay in the
warmth of the
sun, and
gently I reached out for
her;
the grey dust
slipped through my
fingers
and I awoke
alone.
in my room,
filled with dark
mirrors,
the old music plays,
as her scarlet
dress
dances slowly across the
floor
like some translucent
fish, and I
recall her familiar
voice,
now silenced
forever.

so forgive me if my
words are strange,
for I am a
weaver of cold, dark
webs
and
I am not empty
yet.