The Ghost of Fayette Street
It was nearly midnight in late October
A single car’s light reflected off the rain soaked street
I gave my jacket a tightening jerk
As a cool wind rushed around my feet
As the wind blew strongly down Fayette Street
I could almost hear a voice
A spirit crying from the grave
Crying not by want or choice
A voice that had been silent
For a century and two score
A poet who wandered these lonely streets
Whose untimely death made me unsure
Beyond a set of rusted gates
Lay a weathered gloomy grave
All that’s left of this tortured soul
His sullen morose remains
As I passed by the iron gates
I could feel a presence chill my spine
The smell of death just filled the air
A smell not diminished by passing time
The eerie sound grew more intense
Almost deafening in my ears
My weighted footsteps lingered long
As if frozen by ancient fear
A spirit was sighing...crying out!
Not unlike the Tell-Tale-Heart beneath the floor
Like his Raven on a midnight flight
He wanders this street for ever more
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem