|
Seligor's Castle, fun for all the children of the world.
Blogs
Fri, 31 Jul 2009
|
 The Blind Girl and the King, A wonderful Fairy tale from Seligor's Castle.
The King and the
Blind
Girl.
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,
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 inbow-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 14:32
|
No comments
|
Post a Comment:
|
|
|
|
|
