Gripped by an impenetrable sadness
near the drawbridge, John Grim retches
cold lies the sweat upon his forehead
old at heart he enters the ancient church
and the shadows at the altar
as crows enclose a death
and the melancholy ghost-song
that fills the empty church
and the handle in his monk's robe
of the silver, bloodied blade
remind him of her lovely face
and pale breasts, now breathless, by the moat.
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