Life ran away like the impetuous stream of a river,
Beside the dark shadows of the meadows and trees,
Where the forests grew into a lush of dark green,
And night descended with secrets unseen.
The mist curled close in a spectral shroud,
Wrapping the world in a ghostly crowd.
The whispers came, soft as a breeze,
Sighing through leaves, bending the trees.
In that deep silence, I stood alone,
Where light seemed lost, and stars were stoned.
An owl cried out a mournful plea,
As if it knew the darkness in me.
I wandered on, where the forest thinned,
And felt the breath of a rising wind.
It carried scents of earth and decay,
A reminder of life that slips away.
The path grew faint, the night grew bold,
Its grip around me, icy cold.
But then a light began to gleam,
A flicker caught in the edge of a dream.
It glowed upon a distant hill,
Where the air grew thick, and death stood still.
I climbed towards it, heart in thrall,
But shadows reached and seemed to call.
Their voices merged, a twisted song,
Of those who wandered far too long.
I felt them close, felt their despair,
And saw their faces in the air.
Still, the light drew me near,
Though every step awakened fear.
At last, I reached the spectral flame,
But found no solace, found no name.
For there upon the haunted ground,
A single grave I found.
Its stone was cold, its epitaph bare,
And in its silence, I saw myself there.
And there I stood, my breath caught tight,
As moonlight spilt, so thin, so white.
A distant echo called my name,
Like ashes drifting from a flame.
I traced the letters carved in stone,
And felt a chill that reached my bone,
Life ran away: a perpetual epitaph.
Esther Elizabeth Racah
