A Dryad Fair
By Janna "Iawen" Oakfellow-Pushee
I once heard a dryad fair
singing to the trees
her hair was red mahogany
her laugh a summer's breeze
I then espied rosy lips
skin like milk, em'rald eyes
held a secret I couldn't fathom
held above, a lofty prize
"Hail, well-met, you dryad fair!
What forest came you be?
What pretty bark shares your skin
where doth live yonder tree?"
She smiled at me, oh joy of joys
Her presence quite a treat.
She said a name, we played a game
and thus fell fast asleep.
"My great sorrow, dryad fair,
I must now take my leave.
I have my duty new at dawn
tho' here I'd rather see...
See you singing, see you smile
see you safe without a care."
She smiled at me, gave tenderly,
a lock of mahogany hair.
Thus home I went, returned to king
My country went to war
For months the fae my sword did sting
my heart by fae was torn.
I ran to her, my dryad fair,
I came to our precious place
to save her from the battles,
to put myself back in her Grace.
But under the tree, she was bent
A slice across her heart
Her em'rald eyes devoid of life
No longer works of art
I gathered her, my dryad fair,
into my warming hold
It took me but a moment then
to find that I was old
To Fate I cried my case of love
I begged the open air
For surely I caused this death not
Who'll raise my dryad fair?!
"My love, my soul, my bond to Light,
let me now duel with Death!
For if I best him in a fight,
He shall return thy breath!"
And Death comes, but not for me,
and Fate is by his side.
He will not sway, he steals her 'way
and smiles with sick'ning pride.
"Then sing you shall, my dryad fair,
below the earthen mold!
Sing past Death to light above,
Bedecked with crowns of gold!
Sing of Fate, who's cruel and kind
that war that's rent ye in two
Sing of the armies, the slaughter of kin
and love we only both knew.
Do not leave, my dryad fair,
whose voice doth sway the trees!
I love with my heart and soul,
O dryad sing for me!"
...But she is silent, lying still
There is no breath in her breast.
Her rich-red blood runs down her gown
I know whom Death loves best.
The elves doth come, with sword and shield
but upon my blade I'll lay.
What madness is this that I have lost
my everything to fae.
