Classical Poetry

 

(an expanded Italian rispetto)

The spirits move me, it is said,
Though I have never felt their touch;
As I lie dreaming in my bed,
I wonder if they would hurt much.
The tales are told of hauntings near,
The stories made for us to fear;
Of spirits waiting in their realm,
To find a willing corpse to helm.

As moonbeams course across dark night,
And shadows move upon the land;
My sleep is restless, not quite right,
And I feel something take my hand.
My soul it seems departs from me,
Above my body I can see,
A wraith of smoke engulfing all,
Into its maw I now do fall.

What place will we two go, now freed?
From bodies that would bind us here;
Will there be good within our deeds,
Or only evil that appears?
I know that I cannot return,
Back to the body I now spurn;
The spirit moves me round the bend,
And so my life comes to its end.

(c) 2017 Miriam Ruff All Rights Reserved