***

When shadows in the vale appear
And halfmoon takes his trumpet brass
Under old oaks I can hear
The sound of horseshoes in the grass.

And from the cover of the darkness
That cherished memories and ghosts
A faint ray lit with raging sharpness
A rising figure in three shots.

It's made of withered petals, those,
Of rose in graveyard in the cold.
His heart's pierced with withered rose
That never managed to unfold.

The lonely knight of hundred years
That's burdened with unfolded love
Sometimes at night in June appears
And looks at glassy stars above.

They were the same when angel ,dear,
It was a hundred years before...
She gave him rose and heart,sincere
And pure-he'd give her ever more.

She faded swiftly in the blossom
Of jolly April filled with gold
And buried hopes in silent bosom
Of salted ground that was still cold.

He tried to join her in the battles.
He longed for arrows quick and sharp
To free himself from heart that rattles
And hear the tunes of angels' harp.

He never reached the tricky woman,
Whose name is Death-he so much tried!
And as for years goes rumour
Could never peace in heavens find.

His eyes're fixed on distant flashes
His hands're stuck in horse's mane
And from the nightmare's longish lashes
He tries to see the light again.