Upon the moor cold and barren
The moon spilt her beams of light.
And weaving among the silver grass
She illuminated a figure of ghostly white.
He traipsed with leaden foot.
And shoulders bore a heavier head.
And his cry to the celestial moon
Was that of soul lost and dead.
“Alas, alack!” cried he. “Moon look not on me.
For great is the deception I did create.
But if thou indeed must shine,
Lead me to her, else I be too late.”
The moon stretched her fingers
To an edifice, sheer and high.
So the lad set his foot to it,
And quickly began to climb.
Upon the apex, hell was unleashed
And his nightmares were brought to light.
Before him, his faithful love,
Her pale hands clutching a knife.
Stricken, he watched as she cut out her heart
And threw it to the fire without a cry.
Like a hungry wolf the fire ate it
And the tongues of flame leapt high.
“Why?” the lad cried aloud.
“What cursed thee to give up thy heart?
What demon attacked your soul
And stung you with his darts?”
“I am empty,” she did reply.
“For thou lovest me no more.
My heart is burned to ashes
As I near Heaven’s shore.”
And as she fell, he caught her
Wishing to keep her from harm.
“Sweet maid, can thou forgive me
For falling into temptations arms?”
She replied, “My heart burns into nothing
But my spirit shall suffice.
Remember how I loved thee
And freed you by sacrifice.”
The wind killed the fire
And blew the ashes away.
The lad screamed in sorrow
And down beside her he lay.
The moon wept to see him so
And lay the mists to hide his wretched state.
And he wandered alone forevermore
For he had loved her too late.
Tragic tale of a love that comes too late.