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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Fantasy · #748958
Using the legend,I'm trying to warn the "gold chasers" of this world.


Somewhere far, all on her own,
Amidst soft clouds of pure white,
A maiden that I have known,
Keeps all legends in her sight.

In a deserted castle,
Chanting a magical tune,
Wearing her shiny mantle,
Awaiting the month of June.

Diligently with her mind,
Maiden weaves hopes into dreams.
Reading myths of all kinds,
Adding magic to all themes.

Legends of the leprechaun,
Obsessed by the pot of gold,
Her favorite to work on,
That is what I have been told.

In the steamy month of June,
Travelers often pass by,
They cross the vast and dry dune,
Where no wild birds ever fly.

Weary of their lengthy way,
To the castle they all go.
At its foot they plan to stay,
Discarding their swords and bows.

Sweet harmony engulfs them,
Soothing hunger and despair.
A world of colored prism,
Allures them through thin air.

They no longer remember,
Any hardships of their day.
And stay until November,
When heaven turns dark and gray.

Questioning the Fair Maiden,
To where rainbow hides the pot,
Their troubled minds still laden,
With old stories of the lot.

Greedy travelers are intent,
On finding the pot of gold.
Disturbed minds completely spent,
To the Devil, lives are sold.

The legend which is so old,
Told in pubs and taverns.
As per it, the pot of gold,
Is hidden in some caverns.

Not yet seen upon this earth,
It waits for a moral soul.
Honest from his day of birth
He will reach the final goal.

The chosen man will find gold,
On a rainbow he will ride.
Happy, never growing old,
Righteous, and bursting with pride.

The Fair Maiden hears it all,
Busy with her webs of dreams.
She invites them to her halls,
For a feast of cake and cream.

She lures greedy travelers,
Whose nature is mean and black,
Deep into her wine cellars,
From which none ever came back.

The righteous one is granted,
Worldly riches he deserves.
Faith in his heart is planted,
Men like him, God will preserve.

Weaves on our Fair Maiden,
Daydreams for the daring bold.
Who would, however, come again,
Searching for a pot of gold.

Hanna © July 2003

© Copyright 2003 Hanna (hanna at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/748958