By Joseph Oliver

As I walked through a Forest lost in the Mist, I came upon an ancient glade. Upon a mirror stone she sat: The Angel this World Made.

I noticed that she was weeping, She wept for her children lost. Shedding tears for those who willingly gave their innocence, For what had they sought to gain? I knew at once no man deserved this vision: The Angel this World has saddened.

I knew it best that I dare not console her, To promise a lie would be folly. To tell her falsely that all will be well, Would only serve to hasten her coming: The Angel this World deserves.

I shall be telling this Story with a heavy heart, At the end of the broken path. Somewhere in the Forest of life, An angel sits and mourns. She mourns her children for their folly, The Angel this World has Made.