Mourners

Meager trees in the shrouds, as oldie as the stones.... Mourners of abandoned love, for never their woes shall grow silent. O how many times may the moon has shone - reflected in these black lakes? Should it be that we can hear, the woes of those who ceased their lifes? O so old they are... they bare the neverending grief... Age-old miserability Ancient bitter beauty Lost is the hope of those, who walk the moors with pain in heart. ..and all joy it sinks, buried deep, forever presumed dead. O so old they are... they bare the neverending grief... Age - old miserability, a bitter beauty thrilling me