There was a peasant, a young bard
A singer and a gentle ward
With comely face and flaxen tress
Twenty years of age is my guess.
Of her size she was of petite length
And wondrous agile but of little strength
She had lived a quiet life of peace
And knew not of love's sweet release
And in the little time she'd lived
She'd searched for a soul that cleaved

Silent was she and scowled most days
A warrior in blood filled craze
Who left the land sorrowful and lost
And won courage but at what cost
At that time all bent with rage
And not yet thirty was her age
She was a lord with Ares curse
Denied her soul, disavowed her worth
And at her back a sword she kept
To vanquish foes who were inept

Met well these two in times of woe
A soul's welcome they did not know
But in the fallow fields there lay
A lover's seed Fate did decree
To blossom and come to fruition
Despite a vengeful god's derision
One faithful night both faced the truth
Death's heavy gaze had naught to lose
And so voiced what their hearts knew
Fused their soul, their love imbued

July 6, 1999