Is it she, or is it me, the lonely swan, or
illusive girl?
The soul who glides unseen, down where mists
do swirl,
Where the dawn-clad river sidles sly & softly
whispers,
Where old willows weep & dappled sunbeam
glisters.
Are they hers, or mine, those teardrops upon
old stones?
Dewdrops weeping, for passing of winter´s solitary
bones,
Under moss-kissed arches, beneath the milk-garbed
moons,
Where ancient Druids see my fate, cast within
old Runes.
The swan glides down, to where silent river
darkly seeps,
Where, over bridges, furtively, eternal ivy
softly creeps,
Is it my voice, or sad song of the swan, I hear
now crying?
It must be her, for she only sings, when slowly
she is dying.
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