In a meadow where moonbeams tenderly gleam,
A thorn bird was grieving the death of her only dream.
Her crimson rose of heart now a bush of thorns,
Prickled by love, left betrayed, broken and forlorn
Feeling like she had no reason left to live,
She had lost it all with nothing more to give.
But one day she saw a wandering troubadour,
Aching to write a song for his love to adore.
He needed a euphony to win his maiden's love,
A melody sung by the angels in the heavens above.
In the meadow under the moon's witnessing gleams,
The thorn bird found a new goal, the brightest of dreams.
She decided to sacrifice herself for a love so pure,
If that was the price to pay for true love, she'd endure.
Moved by this noble plight, she took her flight,
Searching for a thorn tree in the dark eyes of the night.
Her light feathers grew heavy, her wings weary,
The air grew heavier, the hours more dreary.
But she didn't surrender until she found her tree,
The perfect altar that would finally set her soul free.
The thorn bird embraced the thorn tree high,
Beginning her final song with a soft, sorrowful sigh.
Every note carried a piece of her broken heart,
Until her last red drop, she kept bleeding art.
As her last song reverberated through the breeze,
Its haunting resonance brought the meadow to its knees.
The troubadour, captured by wonder, listened in awe,
Inspired by the heavenly miracle that he saw.
He absorbed every note and made the song his own,
Creating a masterpiece to make his own name known.
Although blinded by vanity, he failed to see
The sacrifice made by the thorn bird selflessly,
Leaving the meadow without a second glance her way.
Ignorant to the price that her pure heart had to pay.
On his journey back to his beloved maiden's side,
He noticed an announcement, including wealth and pride.
A grand lord hosting a birthday fete for his daughter fair,
Promising her hand to the one offering the gift most rare.
Greedy desires took over his vain and flimsy heart,
Forgetting his maiden in an instant as she was not from the start.
Upon his arrival, a bored lordling among the guests,
Saw the troubadour's rags as the best topic to jest.
He approached him with his motives hold concealed,
To manipulate the one whose fate was now sealed.
To gain his trust, he first offered him a fine attire,
His eyes shining bright as his plan was set afire.
Coaxing him further to make a fool out of him,
But upon hearing his song, he was left to hymn.
A second thought struck the young lord much to his surprise,
A fear that this fool might actually win the grand prize.
The lordling led the lad to a more remote corner,
With the excuse of teaching him the quest's order.
With promises of grandeur and treasures sweet,
The troubadour was lured, his doom to meet.
Ordering his underlings to end this jester's life,
Instead of a noble wife, he ended hugging a cold knife.
The lordling stole the song, claiming the gift his own,
While the troubadour's body was left cold and alone.
The young lord triumphant in his deceitful scheme,
Won the princess' hand in a victory so obscene.
In a world of vain desires where true love was lost,
The thorn bird's sacrifice was ignored at great cost.
Yet her song still lingers in the meadow's air,
A timeless reminder of a love beyond compare.

© DawnS.M