Poem of Edite
Do not enter,
You shall not leave,
For these ill tidings,
Are mine to grieve.
In mountain high,
Where birds do fly,
I seek to rest,
But cannot lie,
For in the dark,
I know not why,
Something is hidden,
Under the grass of the plain,
And through the rain,
The path will lead,
Through stormy weather,
To no place of toil, nor bird and feather.
And in this place, that is not here,
There will be light,
But no fear.
At dawn I go,
Over sand, through snow,
Into the river, where they did drown
For I cannot leave,
Unless I go down.
I do not enter,
I shall not leave
These ill tidings,
Are yours to grieve.
Comments