Down by the river,
she runs through
the night.
Shade alabaster.
Shrouded moonlight.
Some rich man’s wife.
Some farmer’s daughter.
Some say she haunts
by the
Darkling Water.
Some say they’ve
seen her
run through the trees.
Some say she cries out
with keening and pleas.
Some say her pale hands
are dripping with blood.
Some say she’s lying so still
in the mud.
No name is given.
No questions asked.
Sitting on mossy stones,
in moonlight basked.
Chills when she looks at you,
grasps at your sleeves.
Crying, she clutches you.
Spectral heart grieves.
There’s no escaping now.
With her you go,
caught in the current’s
ethereal flow.
Some rich man’s wife.
Some farmer’s daughter.
Some say she haunts
by the Darkling Water.
