A HILL’S CURVE

From the hill’s curve, where sorrow dwells,
A story rises, from a valley’s wells.
My soul feels pulled to hear its tune,
So I sit, ready to listen to its mournful croon.

There stands a girl, fair but pale,
Tearing papers, breaking rings, her voice a wail.
Straw hat upon her head, makeshift shield,
From the sun’s harsh rays, her visage concealed.

She lifts her napkin to her weeping eyes,
Ink-stained with tales of sorrow, where truth lies.
With each reading, her cries echo high and low,
A symphony of pain, in endless flow.

Her hair, neither bound nor free,
A sign of pride, yet marked by misery.
A trove of trinkets, amber, crystal, jet,
Thrown into the river, her heart’s regret.

Folded notes torn, tossed into the stream,
Rings of gold and bone, lost in the dream.
Letters inked in blood, with sorrow fraught,
Bathed in her tears, then kissed, then distraught.

A reverend man, old and wise,
Sits beside her, offering solace for her cries.
He lends his ear, his counsel kind,
To ease her burdened heart and troubled mind.

“Father,” she says, with a heavy sigh,
“Sorrow’s grip on me, I can’t deny.
I could’ve flourished, fresh and fair,
But love’s betrayal left me in despair.”

She tells of a boy, charming and sweet,
Whose words and lies swept her off her feet.
His locks of brown, his lips so fine,
Ensnaring hearts, like hers and mine.

“He played me false, his promises fake,
His charm a mask, his love a mistake.
Now I’m left broken, my heart in pain,
By love’s cruel hand, I’m left to remain.”

The girl’s tears flow, a river’s course,
Her sorrow pouring out with force.
Yet in her words, a strength is found,
Rising above the pain that once bound.

The reverend listens, with care and grace,
To the girl’s tale of love’s disgrace.
And though her heart may be bruised and frayed,
He offers comfort, in the shadows’ shade.

:: 03.15.2024 ::