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Fri, 31 Jul 2009
The Blind Girl and the King, A wonderful Fairy tale from Seligor's Castle.

 The King and the Blind Girl.
fountain with
roses
By a fountain in a garden there's a throne without a king
and although roses scent the air there are no birds to sing
for all the birds have flown away to search for hidden treasure.

A blind girl wanders on the lawn, barefoot for her pleasure;
she feels the daisies with her toes, the buttercups and marigolds,
she hears the crystal fountains sing - ancient hymns and madrigals.

But silver tears softly fall from her curtained eyes
and 'neath her crown of golden curls her lips release soft sighs.
"The birds, the birds,"
she speaks aloud,  "the birds have stolen the King
- the flowers mute, the roses deaf, the fountain only, sings..."

Against the empty throne she leans, pensive, full of woe
til o'er her wilting head, unseen, there arcs a pale rainbow
debouching strands of entwined colour that fall before her feet,

streaming down the rainbow's length, scores of birds that chirp and tweet,
Swan in the
evening dusk
their feathers all of tinted hues their beaks all full of glitter
and from their throats  spring forth true songs full of fairie glamour!


In a cloud of coloured wings, crimson, gold and silver, emerald
and tourmaline and frosted mint of aquamarine
they lift the gold-haired maid aloft and fly towards the river.

There, upon a swan-winged boat the king lays strangely sleeping
and on the mossy, bullrushed banks small animals are weeping.
The blind girl touched his care-lined face, she touched his bearded lips,
she lay her body next to his and gently kissed his fingertips.

Then seven ra
And bore it through the evening skiesinbow-coloured swans swam before the King's death-boat
and bore it through the evening skies - but to what cosmic bourne they swam, none can claim to be that wise!

Perhaps the birds might have a clue but they have also vanished.
Where poetry and magic meet bare truth must sometimes languish.

By a fountain in a garden there's a throne without a king
and although roses scent the air there are no birds to sing
for all the birds have flown away to search for hidden treasure.
Of Mystery there is no end, it has no root or measure.
Posted 16:32

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