-Are the seagulls home?
I ask with ancient eyes. The
wind is chill, and I am old.
-Hush. They're home. The
horizon rises with his hand.
Quietly, I sigh. We kiss.
-My love, what tears are these?
Why salt upon your lips?
He holds me close.
-'Tis the wind, my love. He
whispers. I hear his heartbeat,
faintly through my failing ears.
-You love me still, though I
slip slowly from this world?
He sobs, and sunset falls like tears.
-My love, no dream or spell or
death will stop my love. The
beast is beautiful, and I am old.
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