The Wood of Sephoree
I
O’er the wood of Sephoree,
A spritely Lyric gayly breathes
A breath: a fae soliloquy,
Enchanted as the evening breeze.
Her voice, a dull harmonic tone,
Is swift and lethal as a dart,
And though her word can break no bone,
‘Tis poison to the human heart.
Our eager mounts, ‘neath us, pawed
Their ears a-twitch to join the chase,
To break, at last their weary plod
And take again the hunting pace.
“Quickly now! Before she sets
Her hook and snares a human soul!”
And off - away! - our blades a-whet,
Shon against the moonlit cold.
II
Speeding ‘gainst the stony mist
A race against the clock we ran,
And shrugged the shrouded turns and twists,
A troop of Royal Guardians.
To safely cross through Sephoree,
Begged no small admiration;
The fae all hunt for travelers, weak,
To draw to their damnation.
They ‘witch them with their melody,
And dote them with their song,
And feed upon the body,
Of all who come along.
These spirits tempt the many snared,
The trees wherein are bade,
The brambles coil, and so impair,
And so, a meal is made.
III
The fray, the fray, into the fray!
The devils bite and kick and tear,
It’s parry, cut and chop and slay,
It’s scars upon the shields we wear.
A leg is lost, a horse does fall,
With shadows darting tree to tree,
A vine is shorn, a hickory wall,
The pilgrim struggles, “Set me free!”
The Lyric’s tempo takes a turn;
A slower, more hypnotic hum,
To tense and weaken, even burn
A last attempt, and then to run.
At last, the pilgrim stumbles free
Weeping, sweating, “laud the King!”
And cowers on the bloodied street,
Our battle song, his comfort bring.
Well done, good Sir.