There is a jut of stone rising in that mossy glade,
a lichen crusted rock that lifts up from the shade,
where a boy, or spirit, ghostly pale, so often sits.
This changeling child in the sunlit lines where flits
the dropping leaves and rising flutterbys
and dancing dust that in such beams will rise
makes melodies of untrained talents met
for such a wilderness untamed. He'll set
his lips unto the pipe, he'll lift his white fingers,
and free his soul, like some singers
who, possessed by a tune,
are from known shyness made immune.
A freedom there that knows no self,
I half suspect the child is an elf.
A longing fills the heart that hears the song,
a comfort promised eases every wrong,
a hope that what was lost will be regained,
a dream that to this day my soul's retained.
I came upon this glade, this boy, this song,
a prisoner unto a ruthless throng.
They tied me to a tree, a cross, a mast,
and cooked their food while they forced me to fast.
One by one, they heard and wandered in the glade,
and one by one, they fell to hidden blade.
I think the moss a bed of thorny nettles hides.
Each gasped as though was pricked, and ever there resides.
I fought and tore to follow them to death,
but starved, my winded struggles stole my breath.
No sweeter sleep than what his music brought,
I passed out there and knew no other thought
than that strange beauty, otherworldly bliss,
to long for what all art is striving for yet always seems to miss.
Tale Told 