When the prisoner of sadness becomes the prisoner of pain....when the utterly hopelessness strangles any wish to continue...when everything is lost inside there will be no words of comfort...but one can try to say something, one last time, can we?

She aimlessly wanders in shadowy churchyards
among frosted angels in flight and headstones,
on a landscape filled with most utterly silences
because six foots under are only life in the worms,
and the people there, protesting they didn’t could,
after the Reaper swiftly came and cut they lives short,
and the diggers shovels muffled their mouth with dirt
putting and end to their be on this miserable world.


In the mist, the night wanted you to fear when as
in the witches hours you fearlessly will take a walk
among stones heads with blurred names by time
reminding that one is missing in one of the rows,
I wonder if she his looking after for a place of hers
or if is of a dear somebody else, she’s afraid to know,
it brought tears to my eyes to see her gossamer self
as a most delicate and ethereal angel going around.

Then, I hear it, inside my head and inside my heart,
the piercing scream of pain coming from her soul,
and my lips ached to cover hers with a kiss of silence
knowing that my heart will grab her pain as ours,
I was there and yet I only could see night after night,
me, so being made of wood, a centuries old oak
with long and strong arms that can wrap her inside
to share and mitigate…but how can you hug a cloud?

When you one night, passing by that church yard,
see her transparent image like mist do not stop,
because I am that mean oak tree and she is mine
alive and searching by going around all the stones
trying to find only she knows, but I am always there,
to lead off her a lightning send from any fiery storm,
she can believe it, my little and tender Prisoner of Pain,
no one will ever love her so much…after I am gone.

She wanders on a cold churchyard, a gossamer soul
protected by a distorted of age a mean old oak.