Memories of a distant life evade my understanding and soon drift from my fragile mind all at once. I know not what land this is nor what road may have brought me here, yet I feel strangely calm and wholly comforted by the emerald valley that greets my eyes. As though the scene before me is beckoned forth from some unseen memory, some unknown dream of home. Yes, that is surely it. This land must be by home, but why then does such sorrow arise in me to see these distant hills once more. My feet do wander as though they know more of these paths and trails than I. To myself I ask, "What feelings are these that arise in me? What comfort tempered by grief, and what love embittered by loss does burst forth from my heaving heart?". Answers fall sweetly upon my waiting ears in many forms and from all around. The meadow lark cries, and the gentle stream whispers, and I am comforted by their calls.


A tender breeze soothes my rough, scarred body to unfeeling stone, and my weary legs march onward through the sleeping world with me as their loyal passenger. The morning gray closes pale hands over the boughs and branches of an elder tree as I approach in a half-dream. Gentle dew kisses and clings to the still, slight form of an angel lying beneath. Curiosity bids me approach, my footsteps drowned in rushing wind, and I set myself into the silhouette of the overarching branches. A soft expanse of breath, issued forth from the rose red lips of this sleeping beauty, is accentuated by chilled air to the point of a divine vapor. My pulse quickens as a winter breeze, set forth from heaven, caresses this maiden's pale skin, and presses a simple woolen gown close against her slender body.


Hands stir before eyes open as the pale woman, embowered by branches high, takes her leave from slumber, and I, fearful of her gaze, step aback and away from her sight. Moments pass with naught but the beating of my own heart to comfort me. I lean close and at once recognize her blessed visage. She is my pale and perfect maiden, and my dream of untold ages. She is all the joy of my brief existence; my amaranthine, undying Charlotte. To her knees she rises, eyes yet unopened, as one soft hand reaches to meet the other in reverent embrace. I am stricken wholly with bliss and am certain that roses and rubies must surely envy the supple shade of my Charlotte's lips as they rise and fall in pious prayer. I attempt in vain to step away from her grace, all too aware of the desires that arise in me, but I cannot turn my eyes from perfection.


My dearest rises to her feet and crosses herself as the benevolent star rises overhead and casts away the morning pallor. The shale expanse of somber shade before my eyes gives way to sun kissed glory, but the face of my Charlotte is far more fair than even the celestial machinations above. Round about the tree my Charlotte lightly steps, singing a tune I know too well though the words I cannot hear, and I hurry from her path. A mirror am I to her sweet form and as she circles the great oak so too do. I am lost in this secret dance, lost in the sweet movements of my angel, and I pray to the gods above that I shall never find my way again.