Upon yon hill whose sheltering hollow told
A mournful tale echoed by the distant dale,
My spirit bowed to hear the twofold fold,
And there I lay to catch the sorrow’s wail.
Ere long, a wan maiden, a heart turned frail,
Tore papers, shattered rings in anguished disdain,
A tempest in her world, sorrow’s wind and rain.
A woven hive of straw crowned her pale head,
A shield from the sun for her countenance worn,
Where fleeting glimpses of beauty once tread,
Now lingered, a carcass, faded and torn.
Time, with his scythe, youth’s bloom had not shorn,
Nor had youth completely its lease surrendered,
Some beauty through the lattice of age tendered.
Her napkin oft she raised to her tearful eyes,
Where characters of woe were carefully displayed,
Cleansing the silken symbols with briny sighs,
In a sea of sorrow where grief had waded.
She read the contents, her soul invaded,
And often cried in undistinguished woe,
In clamors both high and low.
Her gaze at times aimed at celestial spheres,
As if in battle with the cosmic intent;
Yet, her eyes sometimes tethered by earthly fears,
To the rounded earth, in submission, they were bent.
Then, their vision extended, to every place it went,
Nowhere fixed, mind and sight in distraction twined,
A disarray of thoughts and sights entwined.
Her hair, neither restrained nor formed in a braid,
Proclaimed in her a casual touch of pride,
Some strands untucked, by her hat gently laid,
Beside her pale and withered cheek they glide.
A threaden fillet some locks did abide,
True to bondage, unwilling to break free,
Loosely braided in negligent glee.
From a basket, a thousand treasures she drew,
Of amber, crystal, and beaded jet,
One by one into a river they flew,
Where she sat upon its weeping bank, her silhouette.
Like usury, applying wet to wet,
Or a monarch’s hands that withhold bounty’s fall,
Where need whispers some, excess begs all.
Folded schedules, she had many a one,
Perused, sighed, torn, and given to the flood,
Cracked rings of gold and bone, one by one,
Commanding them to find a mud-cloaked tomb they should.
More letters found, sadly penned in blood,
With silk sleek and affectedly adorned,
Sealed in secrecy, to curious eyes they were scorned.
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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