# Artemisia

Дарина Юрьевна Татаринова

The urn with ash sits cold upon the shelf,

His name etched deep, a promise turned to stone.

Her world, once bright, now is bleak like death itself,

She feels so lost, so utterly alone.


A ruby glass, she fills it with red wine,

Then scoops a pinch, a whisper of his form.

"My love," she sighs, "and dead you are still mine."

And toasts to crescent's dim impassive horns.


The goblet empties, day by weary day,

A fragile bloom, now fading in the frost.

She sees his face, no longer far away,

A whispered promise, of a love not lost...


A lovers' pact, a vow they whispered low,

To follow where the silent rivers flow.

She drinks, she dreams, she waits for death to claim,

And whispers softly her beloved's name