A
high lord thuds past glade and wood
on
his grey mare to greet the sage.
Its
stately hoof strikes a mossy oak root
the
jolt hurls Mera; his rent brow seeps.
Eyes
dim in swoon; wings gift him life
he
soars to realms where swan maids dwell.
Glass
halls beam stars; the holy birds chant
harps
wake old spells of trance and love.
As
Zefa sews lace her kin bless oil
it
seals raw flesh; joy buds with sun.
Gems
trim her curls; he kneels to wed.
Hi Phillipa, just wanted to let you know that since my Sparkles are no longer broken, I now have a new place. I hope you could follow me here too! Regards, Blaga
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