I stepped on the withered flowers
as I faced the mirror.
The creaking was the trigger.
Youth was long gone.
And dead
was the storyteller's King.

I still wondered: why does the nightingale sing?
Pale sunlight rocked with the curtains.
Lullabies bloomed in the gardens.

And time
So softly unfurled its wings

suspended in October air.

Dawn let slip a yawn.
Even silence stared.

A moth kissed the window with its forehead.

she had no scape to spare.

As the raven, she only spoke one word:
"Wail!"
And I did not.
Wrinkles, aches and mementos.
Of the realization, the crescendo.

Youth was long gone, as well as the storms.
But I was still beautiful,
Like thin paper that burns,
And so was my love.
For him, for the lanterns that to heaven still float.

I looked through the window
And the angel-moth landed.
And again commanded:
"Wail!"
And I did not obey,
Not to her hale.

Would she punish, would an oath she propose?
My feet still ached, on top of the musk rose.

How had I dreaded this moment!
How had I dreaded this omen!
How would I know that a soul
Never grows old?
That our shadows betray their owners
When they dance still, as loners?

"Wail!" She thundered.
I would not sunder,
No, no, less in October.

Then I remembered- I already have wailed.
Under an October moon, years ago.
I had became monsoon by tears stowed.

I was nineteen and stepped on the roses.
It was twilight and I stripped from all my clothes.
Naked, I was no longer prose.
My skin was soft. My toes, cold.
Long silken-auburn hair caressed my back.
And then I realized
I was no longer a child.
Thus, I danced.
To a song of myself that never lasts.
And the moon provided me light.
Magic- that's what I felt I was.

We were face to face, once again.
And I finally understood.

"Wail!"

I raised my head,
And long silken-silver hair caressed my back.
This was the closure of the Fourth act.
Aye, someone would wail.
But it would be the one who left music for trail.

I crossed the threshold to the garden
And to my bones I asked for pardon.
The grass was wet and fresh from the coven.
My wings were clipped
[that, he had been]
But I could still conquer.

Aye, someone would wail.
I did no longer ponder.
It would be the moon of October.