The Still White Maiden of the Vineyards

The nomad eyed the still white maiden of the vineyards with contempt. His hatred deepened even as she grew yet more pale before his eyes. He had come under her spell once, long ago. His memory reached back to the pain. She's beautiful, he thought, but what of it? He wished to see her beauty framed by a coffin!


The bird landed on the twig, but lightly, so that it did not break. In the lake one could see the perfect reflection of the sky. Spring shot in like a bullet, galvanizing the flowers of the fields and orchards into the fullness of bloom and scent. I peered out of my tent and saw her standing there, meeting my gaze. Then she was gone, my eyesight dimmed, I grew blind. All that was left was the memory of her image.

Copyright © by John Remmers.