The Captain stepped over the elderly Maiden
Alone in the forested vale.
Her hair, like her tunic, lay ragged and dirty;
Her skin had grown sallow and pale.
She sat in the forest, alone and unsheltered,
Her house was no longer a shrine;
The world had forgotten its grand decoration
And stately, majestic design.
The lute by her feet lay neglected and splintered—
Its music had fallen away;
With no one to listen or cradle the body,
Its function instead was decay.
The papers beside her were torn and disheveled,
The sunlight had yellowed each page;
With none left to write to, her inkwell had hardened,
Its pigment now crazen with age.
The Maiden lay quiet, her eyes ever-closing,
Despairing for what she became;
Her gifts and her virtues had long been forgotten,
And no one remembered her name.
The Captain raked through the old Maiden's possessions
To pocket her hammer and nail;
He held them and smiled, then left her to wither
Alone in the forested vale.
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