The Star is fading.

Raven hair,
tossed by the forgotten voice
of the wind.
The pearl moonlight
bathes her ivory skin
in dappled silver glow.
Her eyes,
the deep blue of the twilight sky
are endless pools of memories.

Treading, slowly, moving silently
through the darkened forest.
Echoes of lost voices,
dimly heard ringing
through the silver trees
are remnants of a golden age
beneath the laughing sun.

She weaves through flowered glens,
through mossy glades
as night-time wanes.
Loneliness hangs silent in the earthen air,
and a single tear
silvery in the moonlight
slides forlornly down her pale cheek.

In the distance,
through the shadowed realm,
a faded figure dances.
Dark hair streaming,
twirling, singing the nightingale's song,
the melody brimming with young love.

Upon the scattered leaves,
beneath the ancient tree,
she lays herself delicately down,
with a willowed hand
to pillow her dark head.
The silken light slowly, gently,
begins to fade.
Through the early silence,
she closes her eyes, and rose lips whisper;
"Now, my love, I come to rest."
At last she can smile.

The stars begin to fade,
And morning is breaking.