The flowers, that were the rainbow,
Now crimson and black as they mourn, ready for
When his last, struggling breath finally
Leaves his mauled body.
Through this scene passes Love herself,
Riding upon her gallant white horse.
Drawn in by the picture of the man,
She cautiously approaches,
Ever weary of the hunter’s traps.
Love, for the first time, is struck by her son’s own arrow,
Lost in the pools of his eyes and blood.
His flawless face, perfection
As he gazes helplessly up at her, pleading.
A gaze that becomes ever weaker
As his life flows out through his wounds.
It is too late now, though he returns her affection.
The tree stump must serve as their marriage bed,
The nightingales as witnesses
To their untimely union.
Majestically, as befits such a woman, she carries him
To his final resting place, where,
Laying her head down beside him,
She watches as he drifts away from her.