The Visit

Indeed I know this fair young Lady well:
Her cheeks so pale, her fingers soft with cold,
her eyes so blue they shine like burning gold,
her voice, as sweet and hollow as a bell.

She comes to visit me within my cell,
wherein I lay and watch my days grow old -
she visits all of us, as I am told,
but what's her name, there's nobody may tell.

Some call her Dream, sweet daughter of the Night,
some call her Death, and speak of her with fright,
some say, a star that fell from high above.

I don't know if she's darkness, or she's light,
don't know if but one thing they say is right,
but she will answer if I call her »Love«.

Copyright 1996 by Maja Ilisch