So wise in years, ancient and old,
This story had been foretold.
Way back in the hills, the land of lost time,
A little run down cabin, cluttered with wind chimes.
They each had their story, a sentimental tear,
Each and all were very dear.
Different melodies, beautiful music they made,
All very special in their own way.
Some loud, some light, some a little tinkle,
Some were so off key they would make your forehead wrinkle.
But who was to hear, who was to know,
Except for the little granny woman, they called Crazy Rose.
How long had she lived there? No one really knew,
She had been there forever, seen many full moons.
Some say she was a witch, escaped from hell,
Others say, she used to be a popular Southern Belle.
The story goes, she had been hurt so bad,
The love of a roving Irish Lad.
He'd come into her life when she was young and naive,
Promised her love, and marriage, then took his leave.
She had been young once, though it was hard to say
Once so popular till he had his way.
A wee one due in nine months,
And it really only happened once.
She believed his lies, he loved her she would say,
They were to be married in the month of May.
She waited and waited he never showed,
She shamed her family, she had to go.
All alone, no one with her, no one to care
No, she often cried, It's just so unfair.
During the winter months, her son was born,
He didn't even last till the morn.
So helpless and cold, she struggled to keep him alive,
But he was so sickly he couldn't survive.
She buried him in the snow, and caught the fever,
As she tossed and turned, Why? She screamed, He swore he wouldn't leave her.
She made the chimes to pass her days,
And once she started, nothing got in her way.
Loud, for the screams, the cries from her soul,
Off key, for the days she lost control.
Light for the soul of her sweet little one,
And the slight tinkle for each new day she begun.
She never dated, never loved, never returned home,
The rest of her days spent all alone.
Crazy Rose died in the month of May,
Her cabin was possessed by her ghost some say.
Two trappers passing by in the freezing cold,
Thought to stop there and warm their bones.
There was no breeze, but the wind chimes played,
Loud and light, back and forth they swayed.
Then the small tinkle and so off key,
A very haunting melody.
They took cover in the woods, the music stopped,
Out walked a lady and they were completely shocked.
She wasn't real, how could she be?
She hung another wind chime, and said, This one's for me.
The sound was unfamiliar, so unlike any other,
A tune for her Irish lover.
A mixture of Life, death, sadness and pain,
And her little son, that died before he had a name.
Centuries passed the war had come and gone
But the little cabin had been left alone.
No one could come near her tiny cabin,
For weird things always happened.
It never fell, never rotted, the wind chimes never lost their tune,
And if you listen closely you can hear them on the night of a full moon.
A century has gone by and the cabin still stands today,
All alone, up in the hills far, far, away.
© Cynthia Clark