The One With the Ring

My partner and I found a lamp in an op-shop. A woman on a swing being pushed gently by her lover. The man's head had been broken and and repaired, but sat off kilter upon his neck.

She swang on her swing as he pushed her with care

And she looked back at him with his long, flowing hair.

 

Their love was deep and true and forbidden,

Their love was strong, and forever, and hidden.

 

He stood with her in moonlight pushing her swing

Then knelt down before her and gave her his ring.

 

Then, from the trees and bushes around

Her father’s forces swarmed….their love had been found.

 

They beat him and bound him and cut off his hair

They kicked him and whipped him and forced her to stare.

 

There, her love, bleeding, unconscious in mud.

She couldn’t embrace him. Her tears were a flood.

 

They took them away…her left and him right

She had nothing left, no joy and no fight.

 

His execution in town at her father’s command.

She, locked in her room with his ring in her hand.

 

She wept and she loved staring out at the moon

All alone without her “one” loved and true.

 

But still she goes to swing on her swing

And still on her hand she wears his gold ring.

 

Sometimes in the quiet when the moon and the stars

Light up the night sky, she sees her dear love.

 

He stands there, beside her, gently pushing her swing

And holding her hand, the one with the ring.