New Original Poem
Infatuated with a changeling-man,
Burned by the touch of the helping hands,
She knows how the cindered one must have felt,
Leered at by the old men and unseen by the prince.
But that moment will come,
When all will be revealed.
"Leave me a song, at least" the older girl begged,
But the king would not forgive.
The younger girl, just as much a princess as the other,
Wanders around the crowded room
In a gown the color of roses;
Its weight is a comfort.
Those helping hands only hurt and abandoned,
But she never really wanted them.
She will trade them for something better.
If it takes eight years, another decade as well,
She will get what she yearns for,
Driven by the same pangs that drove her spiritual sister.
Those helping hands will never touch her again
Their feel is wrong and creates confusion.
They are behind her now.
The changeling-man, this prince, once a boy, once a baby,
Dandled on the knee of one who did leave a song,
Looks at the rose-princess with eyes the color of water,
Behind a broken mask of dark clay.
She feels it.
And prays that her heart will not reject all for fear.
The other girl, in her dress of moonlight,
Could not understand; she was too young,
And too confused by those same helping hands.
The hands never helped at all, only hindered,
Dragged her down to a room of forgotten dreams.
All sacrificed for love of a changeling-boy.
"Leave me a song, at least," the moonlit one cried to the darkness,
But she can feel the earth-and-sky eyes on her hair,
And her tears slow.
The song begins again, after so many years.
And the rose-princess waits.
The fairies dance around her,
And she counts the years and the glitter on the dance floor,
In tune to the pipes and bodhrans.
It doesn't matter how many there will be.
For the changeling-man is near,
And listens to her musical reckoning,
With an attentive interest.
Burned by the touch of the helping hands,
She knows how the cindered one must have felt,
Leered at by the old men and unseen by the prince.
But that moment will come,
When all will be revealed.
"Leave me a song, at least" the older girl begged,
But the king would not forgive.
The younger girl, just as much a princess as the other,
Wanders around the crowded room
In a gown the color of roses;
Its weight is a comfort.
Those helping hands only hurt and abandoned,
But she never really wanted them.
She will trade them for something better.
If it takes eight years, another decade as well,
She will get what she yearns for,
Driven by the same pangs that drove her spiritual sister.
Those helping hands will never touch her again
Their feel is wrong and creates confusion.
They are behind her now.
The changeling-man, this prince, once a boy, once a baby,
Dandled on the knee of one who did leave a song,
Looks at the rose-princess with eyes the color of water,
Behind a broken mask of dark clay.
She feels it.
And prays that her heart will not reject all for fear.
The other girl, in her dress of moonlight,
Could not understand; she was too young,
And too confused by those same helping hands.
The hands never helped at all, only hindered,
Dragged her down to a room of forgotten dreams.
All sacrificed for love of a changeling-boy.
"Leave me a song, at least," the moonlit one cried to the darkness,
But she can feel the earth-and-sky eyes on her hair,
And her tears slow.
The song begins again, after so many years.
And the rose-princess waits.
The fairies dance around her,
And she counts the years and the glitter on the dance floor,
In tune to the pipes and bodhrans.
It doesn't matter how many there will be.
For the changeling-man is near,
And listens to her musical reckoning,
With an attentive interest.