always the minstrel calls me;
the bard, light as a feather on the strings of his harp;
i've been away too long from his echoing halls,
already it fades and wanes.
i am the rebellious daughter of the modern day,
but i can morph, in his land, so i hear.
i could weave with words, and my words would be
wise like an age-old sage's words.
i can say what i mean, and scatter stars in
every corner.
in his land, so the druid says,
words become truth.
life is no longer a reality.
i am drawn in.
Author notes
Written December 9th, 2004
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