Lady Of The Hills

Picture by unknown artist

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My lady of the hills,

Raised

Above ashes and broken mills,

May I have this dance?

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Boots are soiled,

Hands are cracked,

Yet I know

You shall not draw back.

For

The fields of Caer

Bow at your feet;

Your fingers and the sky

Constantly meet.

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I hold your hips,

Sturdy and cold.

Your white skin’s rough

Though sweet to behold.

Under my lips,

You do not shiver

But reply with a kind of glee…

What kind of madman would kiss a tree?

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Herons