Good morning steemians , I want to share you a short story of a woman.
This song of journeys into sorrow
Is mine. I sing it. I alone
Can ravel out it's misery, full-grown
When I was, and never worse than now.
The darkness of exile droops on my life.
His going began it, the tossing wave's
Taking my Lord. I was left in the dawn
Friendlessness where affection had been. I traveled Seeking the sun of protection and safety, Accepting exile as payment of hope.
But the man's family was weaving plans
In the dark, intending to drive us apart
With a wedge the width of the world, condemning Our love a living death. I wept.
My new lord commanded me into a convent
Of wooden nuns, in a land were I know
No lover, no friend's.
So sadness was framed.
For I'd marched myself with a fitting man,
Born to misfortune, blessed with sorrow,
His mind closed to me,mulling on murder.
How gaily,how often, we'd fashioned oaths
Defying everything but death to endanger
Our love: now only the words are left
And our friendship s a fable that time ha forgotten and never tells.
For my well beloved
I've been forced to suffer, far and near.
I was ordered to live in a nuns-nest of leaves
In an earthen caverns under an oak.
I write with longing in this ancients hole;
The valley seem leaden, the hills reared aloft,
And the better towns all branble patches
Of empty pleasure. The memory of parting
Rips at my heart. My friends are out there,
Savouring their lives, secure in their beds,
While at dawn, alone,I crawl mesirably down
Under the oak growing out of my cave.
There's I must squat the summer long day,
There I can water The earth with weeping
For exile and sorrow, for sadness that can never
Find rest from grief nor from the famished
Desire that leap at unquenched life.
Be that man be always bent with misery,
With calloused thought;may he have to cling
To laughter and smiles when sorrow is clamouring,wild his blood.
Let him win his pleasure
Unfriended alone, force him out
Into distant lands, as my lover's dwells
In the shade of rocks the storm has frosted,
My downhearted lover,in a desolate hall
Lapped by floods. Christ, how he suffers,
Unable to smother swelling memories
Of a better place. There are few things more bitter
Than awaiting a love who is lost to hope.
That's all for today... Thank you steemians... To God Be The Glory......
