teen poem

old wine to drink
above them all, looking down
in an old chamber softly lit
gaily through the fields we danced
my sorrow, when she's here with me
gone are the three, those sisters rare
that year
under dusky laurel leaf
as evening falls
i make my shroud, but no one knows
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
tripping up, falling down
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale