She dances on petals of ivory flowers,
her fingers brush the tiny hair of the leaves.
Long wings flow behind her.
I’d think she was an angel if she wasn’t so small.
More join her, as the flowers of spring bloom.
Wings like butterflies, voices like bells,
they usher in a new dawn, a new beginning.
It is fitting that this is my end.
I am resting by a hawthorn tree,
looking out at a hill of stones,
holding the tombs of passage.
One of them calls to me.
And so, they fly around me,
these angels of life, of beothu,
as I breathe out my last,
as I breathe out my bás.
The one from my dreams, the one I saw first,
she creates a sea of flowers,
curling them around my feet darkened with mud
and my fingers dripping with blood.
They curl and weave through my skin,
my hair, my clothes.
I am becoming one with nature again
as I’m swept into a sea of repose?
She lands in the palm of my hand.
My finger brushes against her wings;
like gossamer silk, like pure lace,
and yet as strong as steel.
She smiles at me, a heavenly one,
and, despite my dying, I smile back.
She whispers in a language only Nature hear,
and now I can hear it too.
“Sleep now, and rejoin the Spring,
your death is your end,
but it lets us begin.
Rest now and dream with the angels.”
And as my eyes close, as I fall asleep,
I hear the song of the Fae
calling me to the deep,
and so, I have begun.
I am reborn
in the velvet touch of a rose,
in the cloying smell of a jasmine’s breath,
and I am new, and I am free.