And Engret, writing in the sand, wiping a tear from the corner of a bloodshot eye
With the sound of waves crashing, like his heart pounding, relentless and broken
The Arabian stallion, muzzled, silenced, tamed by the woman he always desired
A Russian tale, of prince’s, damsels, Duchess’s and Zsars, Snegurochka the snow maiden
Is she lost, forlorn, is she heartbroken or is she simply unfeeling, a young Scarlett O’Hara?
Why does the torn lover always desire what he cannot have? Juliet dying, mourn Romeo?
And the gates of thunder open wide on a windswept night in Bala, as lovers never knotted
Wrestle with their loss, Equus and Mammis thwarted, wild horses stalled are kept apart
Diana breathed on Phaedra who still yearns for her Hippolytus though calculated and cruel
Whom the Gods decide we love, not our choice, the task is only to unravel and requite
Separation purely squanders the trailed line that Engret wrote, not words of love in prose
And so tonight fair maiden, sleep as though dust has grown between us, a dust that blows away