The room looks old

and smells of wood

The clock shows noon,

its hands made of gold

The fire lies in cinders,

its embers dying out

Feeble sparks shoot out,

like a romance rekindled

The hearth grows cold,

just like the heart,

as each hour passes fast,

for the lady who grows old.

Her hands begin to fumble,

her face a map of wrinkles,

her eyes a permanent crinkle,

incoherent words she mumbles.

The candle flickers feebly,

plunging the room in darkness

The night is moonless.

The clouds drift slowly.