Carry you, I do, in the folds of cloaks

and the ears of figurines. Tucked away

you sleep in shadowy bliss, as is befitting

the Glomdoring kith. I keep you hidden,

dearest blood, in the vaulted heights of chapels

and the burrows of spiderlings and pill bugs.

 

Let them speak of you as they wish, for

what are words to Wyrden glories? What

an ugly thing, a spiteful tongue, in jealous

bodies of wax and mud. I am deaf to them

that would deny the plainest truths of all.

And yet I carry you, linked within my blood,

as memory now, gossamer upon the Wyrden

winds of the Heart of Darkness.

 

Forgetting is a coward's affair and these

days I do feel brave. And so I renounce

the loss of your name from the lips

of the faithful, and I refuse the waters

of fallen memory. Instead I build for you

a fleshy crimson box. In the birdlike faeling

heart of mine resides your manor

and there you grow as black roses

on the Gloriana banks.

 

Link by link I build my chain and slip it

back into the past. And from the warm

summer darkness of that night I draw you

out and into the air of life. Hear me, and

breathe again, my love, upon

the Wyrden Wood.