Up on that marvelously luscious hill

there is a castle, standing grey and morose.

It’s made of granite and sad prose,

a ruin of forgotten folk tales

and trampled hearts, spare parts.

A dead wife and a broken, wet princess

inhabit, with their tragedy

these empty halls of memory.

The cracked, eroded ceilings

are touched, through gushes of wind

by that Gothic melody.

Yesterday, this castle of sadness

was attacked

by a wailing Banshee.

A blood moon, in its intensity

declared:

Shout your sadness

and you shall be free!

The yellow, rancid pages of manuscripts,

half-eaten away by rodents,

fall off the shelves

and speak about obsolete elves.

Melancholy and loss

come alive

and penetrate the moss.

The dead wife

with her sorrow

The defective princess

with her lingering hope of tomorrow,

emerged unscathed from the walls

to sing the sadness that befalls

the castle by the waterfalls.