What comely lass, this elven girl,
a living gem, expensive pearl.
Who clung with manacles to me,
a mighty and a wise old tree.

In forest deep she rang her bell,
and I was lost, in Elvenfell,
a place of wishes, not defeat.
A land of love, a rhythmic beat.

She walked alone, this comely queen.
Her song so loud. Her face serene.
And I, a spirit, shook my boughs,
and droplets fell on her like clouds

so that to her it seemed like rain.
Like spring had come, and summer wained
it's last bright ray. It's final heat.
And she stood there. On softest feet.

Oh lady fair, where from you came?!
I cried,  but fear her heart retained
and almost she fled fast away
but in my roots I begged her stay.

She came to me, her fear assuaged
and touched my bark, my skin so aged
yet her soft touch made me feel young
so to her heart I surely clung.

And so she stayed, my elven maid.
Held to my girth, in love she stayed.
She lived with me. Lived in my core.
She lingered here forever more.

~ Windsinger

These flowers, scented roses are Devine,
a white one, red as blood, here is the thorn.
All sung, now loved and stout, this love is true,
from a torn past, like cloth he shall be shorn.

When fortunes’s lost and hope is all that’s left,
when moonscapes cast a dreary eye on life,
when sunlight is a play on future songs,
and he do find that he is less a wife,

He’ll ponder into great and stolen gauze,
and wonder when, if ever smiles did fail,
that to the great and boundless even planes,
did poets ever watch it move and quail?

Would he pretend to hold his heart in joy?
Would he just fake a tear, in laughter’s voice?
His child is gone, she moved into true space,
and he was left with just one bitter choice.

He would arise; his grave would lie bereft,
and god would know his plaintive wrath and hide.
And all the while, while centered on this stage,
he took his time but now he knows his side.

Sincere these words, no truer shall you find,
Not even when in books you seek to know
‘bout increased life and all its ugly charm,
this knowledge is not food for taint to grow.

So seek him out, this wanderer returned,
in distance, travelled he in worn out shoes,
while soulful in the desert he did cry,
beside the fire he sang the lonely blues.

~ Windsinger