A shadow moves o’er the land
and touches Lizzie’s grave.
On a silent day in spring
only windblown leaves speak,
but they speak not of Lizzie,
and she speaks not of them.
Upon the promontory
where she lies in repose,
one can see the rolling river
that flows beneath her feet.
As her bones turned to dust
beneath the cold, wet ground,
the seasons came and went
without regard for Lizzie,
without mention of her dreams,
all of which came to naught.
Countless stars have twinkled
upon her final resting place
on endless, ancient nights,
a diadem she cannot wear,
a crown she does not need,
in this time, not her own.