We were too young to truly forgive The one who broke the spell inside our souls. Yet not to grieve for him, who chose to live Apart from us — we were too old. A castle blushed like winter’s fragile dawn, As vast as worlds, as ancient as the wind. We were like daughters of a near-born king, Almost princesses within. Our father was a wizard, grim and gray; In anger, we enchained his power tight. Each evening, bending over ash and flame, We practiced magic in the night. From antlers of the deer we drank its blood, Through lenses studied hearts, both torn and bare. And anyone who still believed in love Seemed foolish, naïve, unaware. One evening, from the darkness, he appeared — A sorrowful prince dressed in muted gray. He spoke without belief — ah, yet we heard With faith that would not fade away. December’s dawn looked softly through the glass, The distant hills blushed pale with timid light. He slept in peace — indifferent to the fact That we were suffering through the night. We were too young to ever quite forget The one who shattered magic, broke the spell. Yet to love again with tenderness like that — We are too old as well.
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