As Helen’s hair sways in the wind,
I sit on cold stone steps, watching,
And suddenly, it begins to fall ...
First one, then two, then three gold
Strands descend the sloping, tense air -
She sits in silent hush and
Whispers sweet melodies to the wind.
I stare dumbly at her face,
A plain and perfect visage and yet,
There’s an innate sadness in it
As if fate stepped on her heart
And said she didn’t care about
Her hair or much else.
And now it slides along invisible
Murmuring waves like those
Who carried her away from
Sparta. She tells me she is not
A willing prisoner; she followed
Destiny to sea, and then -
Could not turn back.
I saw her one more day and she
Was almost gray, as if
The stone steps were her brothers,
Who never said a word.
I knew she was not well but
She simply sighed and smiled
Her sad, tired smile. The
Next morning, I looked in on her,
And she was dressed in white.
She smiled at me - a sad, numb smile
And then, I knew she’d gone.