Empyrium

Meagre trees in the shrouds,
as olde as the stones....
Mourners of abandond love,
fornever their woes shall grow silent.
O how many times may the moon has shone -
reflected in these black lakes?
Should it be that we can hear,
the woes of those who ceased their lifes?
O so old they are...
they bare the neverending grief...
Age-old miserability