Astarte

The woods are lonely, dark and deep.
Stopped between mountains and frozen lake.
The darkest evening of the year,
I came and wrote upon a cross of wood
For the rotting flesh lying under foot.
And on the mournful stars gazed up above.
The eagle watches from his mountain walls.
Good bye to the sun that shines for the dead no longer.
Now sleepy death summons him down to Acheron,
That cold shore.