oskar hansen


November Song


November Song

No suitor knocks on her door
Her hair is white and uncombed
Children think she is a witch.

Once she had been the belle of
The royal ball, spurned lovers
In her perfumed air.

Old age came creeping, first
Slowly than rapidly… and know
She is quite forgotten.

Submitted: Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, September 18, 2013

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