The Undead

by Zaina Anwar

The following poem is based on an old, Eastern European folkloric legend....

1
On a cold and dreary night,
A lone man silently creeps,
Through darkly shrouded woods,
Past ancient, hidden creeks.

'Tis the midnight hour,
Most God's creatures are asleep,
But here and there through the gloom,
An owl curiously peeks.

A wintry hush pervades the woods,
Frosted leaves are reticent,
Save the sounds of forlorn footsteps,
They are still and penitent.

Up the rounded hill he ascends,
With his dark cape flowing,
Like water over ebony rocks,
Liquified and glowing.

And the moon, nocturne pilgrim,
Hangs low and diffuses,
A strange mystical light,
Illuminating whatever it chooses.

In such a dismal prospect,
Whither does our wanderer flee?
At such an ungodly hour,
Does he dare to drift aimlessly?


2
His harried steps,
Mark the solitary path,
Shifting the dust,
Unsettling the grass.

Crouched low,
With shoulders stooped,
Odd gait he has,
Like a spring unloosed.

His hair is wet,
Head carefully hidden,
Beneath a languid hood,
Its folds dust-ridden.

Bony fists are clenched,
Against the bitter cold.
They are raw and swollen,
And bleeding furthermore.

And now and then, as he unfolds them,
'Tis a strange sight to behold,
Ghastly and horrid, twisted and morbid,
Talons!-- talons crooked and old.


3
As Destiny urges, he rapidly advances,
Until the moon, a lonesome belfry reveals.
From side to side, looking with furtive glances,
He enters quickly, not to be heard or seen.

In his memory is marked a grave,
Towards this he makes his way.
Driven by an instinct almost lustful,
He falls to his knees, begins to excavate.

Feverishly he works, eyes blurry and wild,
Struggling against the mouldering clay.
When at last his frenzy slowly subsides,
The corpse can be seen as clear as day.

A sly leer on his face appears,
His aim most certainly achieved.
With a hefty pull, a twist and a turn,
He wrests it from the lair of eternal sleep.


4
And now as our story nears its end,
Take heed of what I say.
The corpse is retrieved for a reason,
It is to be animated again!.

In disbelief you may shake your head,
But allow me to humbly state,
That many such tales unwisely ignored,
Have leaked through legends of late.

And the grave digger is a demon,
He shall grant the elixir of life.
Resurrecting from beyond the crypt,
A Vampire, immortal hunter of the night.

Who seeks for blood virgin and pure,
Whose thirst rises with the moon,
Who follows its scent silently lurking,
Lurking in the midnight gloom....

The Spell

Scents of sylvan bloom infuse his senses,
Here he lies with her unrestrained-- no pretenses.

Beneath the emerald canopy of ancient trees,
Love strikes the hour- a spell he cannot flee.

With every shuddering breath, he is reborn
Her sweet flesh sings to him, the old human song.

That which he craved, for uncounted years past,
The saccharine wine of love, he has tasted at last.

Creation applauds in unanimous praise
This youthful lover: See how his heart is ablaze!

An embrace, a touch, a lingering kiss- He
In ethereal poetry of love, is never remiss.

Now the idle candle's lit-- it has come to pass
He will, in anxious zest, all these moments amass.

In a covetous grip, this solitary passion he holds,
Oft, the Beloved image, he carefully moulds.

But of a sudden, a disturbance, a knock furthermore,
Alas, he awakes, only to see the dream no more.

With heavy heart swollen and in pain,
He turns over awaiting sleep he knows, in vain.



by Zaina Anwar