November

I heard her talking to herself one day,

And saw the madness in her broken eyes.

Her words were meaningless, not even lies,

And faded locks of tattered hair hung grey

Upon her forehead. Nothing left to say

I thought, as evening gathered in the skies

Of cold November. I said my last goodbyes,

Then took my coat and slowly walked away.

Now she is dead and this is all I know:

A body that dissolved in front of me

Now lies beneath the early winter-snow.

And though they tell me that her soul is free,
A pale November wind begins to blow,

And fields of snow-white graves are all I see.