In a fabled town,
Season in and season out
The stone cold figure,
facing south
Stood guarding up
With an etched out frown.
Many mighty knights,
Traders and their wives
That had ventured past
Shared much a strife.
"What atrophy must we muster?,"
Asked kings to their wise men.
That may cause to spoil or fester
That rotten piece of crag.
And hence the plan was devised.
After much dialogue and dissension,
To thaw the sentinel's escutcheon,
They beckoned the reclusive anchorite.
For who would understand better
The loneliness of the figure,
That braved each friend and foe
With an arrow and bow.
The scarlet sky did forebode,
She knew some mischief was to approach.
With weapon in hands she poised,
To bring down the enemy with reproach.
What came next
Left her stupefied.
She fell for the rogue,
Without as much as a fight.
He grazed at her feet,
Traced past her belly.
His warm touch melting
The coolness of her valor.
He whispered in her ears
Much not that she could fathom.
All that she cool feel
Was his hands around her cold shoulders.
With every stroke and caress,
She saw herself transformed
From a ruthless stone sculpture
To a girl with hair, coloured fawn.
The hermit knew not
What was to come next.
That sudden rush of passion,
He never did expect.
That day was removed off history
Since no one ever found,
What happened of the lovers,
Of that mystical, sylvan town.
