Hark! they whispered, those dryads in the trees

And all throughout the woodlands I felt disease.

Plucking little white flowers, I twirled them between my fingers

A forced ballet, a triad, 

then blew them away like cinders.


Nothing forth came, worry I laughed away.

Parting my lips, I sang of love gone astray.


But then arrived that murmured taunt,

That voice with such hypnotic flair,

Don’t play the fool, I’m the subject of your every prayer.


I thought to reply, but before sound came,

Lord Death smiled, muttered my name. 


Wither, they seethed, those dryads, so repulsed now by me

And all throughout the woodlands I felt kin unraveling. 

Plucking little drooping flowers, I made him a crown so all would know

I’d be the voice to his soothing





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