Frozen SyrinxFrosty fence posts guard the frozen way
As from the field I watch the bright inn's light;
A town-born lass has asked this bard to stay,
And yet I sleep midst icy bales this night.
How sweet it is to kiss a merchant-lass's smile,
And share the night in softly giggling blushes -
'Tis not my lot. I wander lonesome mile,
Swept out the door like floor-strewn tavern rushes.
The mayfly of the mortal lass or lad
Too quickly passes by my goat-legged kin.
To love a child of Adam we find sad;
To father - as mine did - we find a sin.
I won't abide tonight beneath their roof...
Their dancing was not meant for cloven hoof.
copyright 7 February 2001
by Earle B. 'Glas' Durboraw; travelling.