I thought it was a moonlight fable
That flew into my ears in a disguise,
But was a reality I could scarcely bear.

My little sister is gone
Gone, in the way of my father; my mother too,
In the light of the day,

To the land beyond the plains of sight;
The great beyond, tucked away in the depth of unknown;
Far above the shimmer of winter's sun.

She was barely at the earliest of her mornings,
Right at the exuberance pitch!
Yet no more; snatched, snatched away --
With the speed of a lightning of murderous means.

The day swooped down on us like a greedy raptor
Lit by a collage of sky rays
But felt as if much darker than the skin of owl hours.

I had besought the day for a friendly stunt,
In my garment of optimism hoped to cut a better deal,
But got pegged down the hardened soil of sorrows.

I could have vowed it was a moonlight tale,
But in a twinkling the grammar turned on me,
Then my eyes obliquely and emptily gazed to the frozen ground.

It was true: she was scooped off the earth's surface,
Like a tree cut down from aerial glory, and
Like a weightless leave swept down the slopping oblivion.

Oh, how I have despised it;
Hated the gust of wind that ushered it in,
And frowned at the mindless mists from which it drank.

But can any charge be brought against them?
Can it be found scarlet water in their hands?
It is but a myth that death has a helping hand;
It is its own army and army of its own.

Death is unseen yet seen everywhere.
In its appearance souls scream to a freeze,
Tumbling away at the divide of tree and wood.
Here in the hillside of creaking bones.

But where really lies the strength of life
That it bows to even the puff of death?
What contestation it has with death?
In its season of rainbow surge multitudes of laughter,
In its storm springs lineage of foreboding spirit,

Always astride two-headed horse of the great unknown;
It holds no promise, it is no friend to a friend.
Alas, it is a whiff of air to endure but a time,
Conniving as the undulating smiles of the deep.

I shall but not trust, neither shall I not hope,
But leave lamentation to it's own device,
And away sheathe the blades of tears,
Then calmly I will sit

On the mountain of my mind overlooking
The glistening waters of our flowery past,
In which our heads wore feathers of gold,
That lit the air with the sheen of our innocence.

In this mirror I shall see my sister again
In fullness of life and vigor to tread,
Until that day when our embrace shall ever endure.