Orpheus My Valentine Not Dead

Last night I believed I saw three Witch Beings relent and cast down from their winter moon Orpheus, free riding. Happy all he was with his magical lyre. Not trapped with bereavements of old, no lures set with any crying, he called to me. His sun-gold limbs were elegant intact. Feet swift where night wind took him. Blood red were his cheeks and marked, telling where he’d been. By fate or by chance that night he came into my darkened room, my bed. His whispered song tenderly to hold me. Orpheus, my valentine, not dead.