Svoltzongar

What touch of prophecy let you know You would be so early laid to rest? Could you sense the wick of your Life burning—the hotter for the Passions and disappointments tearing Through your breast? The flame all the hungrier for it's short supply. Maybe an angel, sent by God, Laid a hand upon your forehead That you might be made aware. The better, to make good use of such Short hours.  A benediction not just To yourself, but to the whole world— From your time onward. But still, How horrible it must have been, With that angel-gift, to sense the wick Blacken with each passing day. Consumed and brittle in th