The Flame That Wandered Poem by Tarrakkul the Gazzele

Deep beneath the shadows she lay,
Beaten, left for dead, at early day.
Blood runs from her head and shoulders,
But who is this who rides over the boulders?
Here comes he who loved the child,
though she was so young and wild.
Slipping lightly off his horse he hastens to take her,
Strong arms lift the limp daughter…
Who is this? Asks he, in his heart,
Is this not my secret love?
Whose graceful figure I longed to dance with in spring?
Whose bright eyes laughed at me in summer's sorrow?
Whose wise words the elders mocked?
The skies darkened, rain broke forth.
Heroically mounting hose, he speeds south, maiden in his arms,
'Haste, hasten young lover! ' whisper the trees of the forest
Ahead lies the shepherds shack, abandoned for autumn's cold.
He lays her gently down on the little cot,
And quickly finds wood to fire the stove,
'Little love lay patiently!
I hurry to warm your house,
I will tend your wounds,
I will nurse you to life,
I have loved you always,
But never told you,
Hold on for me, sweet child! '
The fire burns brightly now,
warming the wind torn room.
Proudly he wipes his sooty hands,
and turns his eyes from the fire.
'No, no! My love! '
Face pale and lifeless,
Long lashes closing at-last peaceful eyes.
Cherry round lips losing color,
'Heaven, heaven! Do not steal her now,
this destiny is yet unfulfilled!
I beg of you, breathe life into my bird! '
He kneels on the floor beside her,
Cradling her beautiful head in his hands,
Long damp locks oblivious to his touch.
Ah! A faint movement arises in her chest,
A tiny breath of air escaped her cold lips!
He wipes the blood from her forehead,
Brushes aside the cloth at her shoulder,
bandages her wounds, washing gently first.
Thank Heaven they were not many or deep,
Mostly bruises.
Now runs he before the fire,
Love in his arms.
There he rocks her cold damp body to warmth.
Like a father his baby to sleep.
But this is a lover his love to life.
Who is this? My love is she?
I saw you as a child little love,
Shook my head, amused at your passionate woes,
Could it be that the young saw what the old could not?
The little one born to free our land from corruption,
You sit in my arms so lifeless!
Who has done this to you?
The storm has sickened you, but who beat you first?
I see a revolution in your heart,
Though you look so broken,
I tell you my love,
When you are well again, I will join you,
You and I, we will free our people from this bondage!
You were once the only one who saw the corruption,
The only one who lamented daily for the soon coming destruction of our people…
But now I hold you in my arms, and I begin to understand
They would think I was gone mad,
To find that I listen to the heart cry of a child eight years my younger.
That I find her cry to be true,
But that does not matter my love,
We are the only revolutionaries,
But we will wisely revolt come the time…
I do not know how though, you have it all carefully planned.
Wake my love! Tell me how we can save our people!
And I will lead you, and take care of you.
There he lies, gently rocking the girl aside the fire,
As a cradle it's baby.
No answer came from the solemn child,
But her white gown slowly becomes rid of rain's damp,
And breath escapes her weak lungs more oft' now.
-
Morning light is seeping through the small window,
Waking the strong lover,
Rises he now, A. in his arms,
Here he stands, here he turns, and dances,
Hope has come riding sun's glorious rays!
How could such faint light filter through all the trees and reach him?
Heaven at work, heaven at work!
A skip in his step, a life in his spin,
He dances with his love, whose white face looks strangely smiling!
Her long golden locks flow all about him as they spin,
Dry now, for the fire he tended.
'Sweet love, this is our first dance,
Oh my love! You are light in my arms,
Grown so thin by passion's forgetfulness to eat! '
He trips now! But his strong arms let not her head touch the ground,
He lies on the floor now, laughing like a child.
'If you could but laugh with me my love! '
He smiles to the quiet face in his hand.
Standing up he spins one last art-full flourish,
and sets her gently down on the cot.
'I will prepare a feast for us now, little one! '
Potatoes from his riders sack cut easily by his hunting knife,
Soon a broth is boiling in the pot on the fire.
A noise startles the lover!
A gasp for breath arises from the cot!
He sets aside the soup from the fire, and hastens to her side.
Now he takes her in his arms, and sits on the wooden floor,
peering into her little face, waiting for movement.
A first smile! She smiles at some unseen being, eyes closed still.
'Jesus! ' she whispers happily.
Her breathing is deep and steady now,
Her body warm though weak.
He thinks she has fallen asleep again,
For she does not move for many long moments,
a peaceful smile on her delicate face.
Then a quizzical expression slowly crosses her countenance,
Her pretty lips begin moving, her whisper is heard.
She smiles faintly.
'Where am I? I feel safe, my Jesus! '
She waits, seemingly for an answer from heaven that another ear cannot hear,
'What arms are these that hold me so safe? So strong, they hold me warmly, who is this soul my Lord? '
**And- I can't find the words to finish this ballad, ugh, help me someone? **