Pilgrim girl, praying by candle light, I wonder if your thoughts will ever be laid to rest.
The witching hour is near, and you seem to meditate on the day's thoughts.
I am intrigued by your stillness, are you waiting for some one to answer your prayers?
Your eyes are filled with sand, yet your kneel at your bead side letting wax desiccate your bedding.
The candle grows and dies till morn, and the wax has spilled on the floor.
I touch your shoulder; your fall backwards.
To my surprise you died that witching hour.
Your knees are covered with golden wax; your eyes still glow with life.
Has nostrum stole your heart from my grasp?
The warmth from your hands still flickering as if the candle was your soul; it's now dim.
Don't burn out, my shining light...
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