A Visitor

As she woke up from her hoary coffin

She glared at the moon for the unwanted light

Pale fingers, white arms, dead eyes

No! She thought,I don't want this life.

Life? She thought again

Is that what this is called?

As the nightingale concealed behind the shrubs

The night's rhythm merged with the darkness

She went through the unilluminated streets

The streets which once had been the path to her home

'Yes! Home', she thought, with sudden tears in her eyes

She looked up at the moon for the unwanted light.

As she entered through the bronze gate

She saw her old homestead

Reminding her of a missing piece

She couldn't find in her own puzzle

She walked further,'yes! My home'

Remembered the lone soul

She stepped on the threshold of her monument of memories

And saw three figures sharing sorrow in the darkness

She passe

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d by her old father who crying silently

Sat in the corner of the room

Her mother wailing for her lost daughter

And her sister who sat there by the burning hearth.

As she passed everyone by 

She looked into their eyes

'no don't cry for me' she said 

Today too an unheard voice wept.

She went into her own chamber

Where she and her heart used to rest

And now she saw the paper

She used to write on when she was sad

She took the pen 

And with a stiff head shake

She held back her tears

And then glancing at the mourning figures she wrote

"Here I am a free soul

And now please let me go."

Writing this she rose from the old armed chair

Through the old streets she returned to her coffin 

Hoping her family would read it this time

And she looked up at the moon for the unwanted light.