The Amaranth symbolises immortality
Another wife has died to be remembered
at a funeral attended by few.
I was not present, it would not have been decent.
She was ninety-four.
Such a beautiful child she was,
when I observed her from afar.
I was grateful, a quarter century later, I was not recognised
when she became my wife.
So hard to abandon her after five-and-twenty years.
Her tears, I never saw, but I felt each one fall.
There have been so many through the centuries.
Hearts broken, uncounted except by me.
With each one I cleaved my own heart
promising this one would be the last.
Often it was — for a generation.
But the curse of needing someone fermented
until resistance diminished.
To see a lover grow old and wither is hard.
To see your children and grandchildren
age and die is a sight impossible to bear.
Living for centuries knowing sweet death will
never come calling creates a madness
that cools to purest sanity.
I am a wraith, running, hiding.
Changing to avoid being prodded and burned
and in times so hard to disappear, ever inventive.
My miracle must remain undiscovered.