The Captain and the Maiden

The Captain stood over the elderly Maiden

Alone in the forested vale;

The chiton she wore appeared ragged and dirty,

Her skin had turned sallow and pale.

She lay in the forest, alone and unsheltered,

Her dwellings dismantled by time;

The world had forgotten their grand decoration

And stately, majestic design.

The lute by her feet held no music inside it,

Its strings had been broken and frayed;

With no one to listen or cherish its timbre,

Its function instead was decay.

The book by her side lay neglected, but open;

The sunlight had yellowed each page;

With none left to write to, her inkwell had hardened,

Its surface now crazen with age.

The Maiden herself appeared fragile and tired,

Her hair, like her eyes, were worn grey;

Her purpose and labors had long been forgotten,

And no one remembered her name.

The Captain raked through the old Maiden’s possessions

To steal only hammer and nail;

He stood up and nodded, then left her to whither,

Alone in the forested vale.