Why am I cursed with mortal women And yet further cursed without them So solid in their dark forbidden flesh They crush mere men with cruel haste I retain my structure but cannot approach My sylvan bones held together With dark incantations Seem to reject the advance While yearning for their touch Where are the faerie ladies From the stories I could know them with a glance Pure, ethereal and true The spirit of intellect pouring from their lips Quenching the deepest thirst Forming pools in which to dip In the middle of the night But all I see is mortal women Worrying the tattered bones Of houses, chariots and wines And men to grind to formless paste With which they make their bread
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This work is Copyright (c) Mike Fletcher 2005