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
by a wailing Banshee.
A blood moon, in its intensity
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
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.