In the purple woods of loneliness,
With the harvest of sorrow,
She builds her grave. And dies.
In the dusty grave of darkness,
With the harvest of death,
She weaves her ghost. And flies.
Under the raining clouds of sadness,
With the harvest of tears,
She embraces Emptiness. And cries...
In the purple woods of loneliness,
Out creeps the forgotten little goblin.
He embraces her: her broken grave.
Motionless, she stands, cold and hard.
He presses his body against hers,
Hoping to give her warmth.
.................................
Who was this little goblin?
- No! He was human! -
His parents were a happy couple,
Who got too afraid and ran away
When they realised he was green.
So, in the orphanage, there sat the little green boy.
Children stared, then giggled, then laughed
And whispered
As he smiled his quivering green smile.
Whose broken grave was this?
In the arms of the weeping goblin?
Whose little ghost was this?
That cried an invisible river?
...Once in a while, the world forgets
How it's supposed to work...
And that's when miracles happen.
Three seconds - that was all -
In that time, ghosts could be seen.
But that was enough time for her to give a teary hug
To the little green man.
It was enough time for them
Both to feel loved.
The hands which interlinked,
With fingerprints forever printed
On one another's palm.
With smiles forever held
In one another's heart.
