~ by Charles A. Coulombe
Do branches crack in Yvelines?
To there I dare not wander.
Elves that dance in Broceliande
Shall see me there no longer.
Beneath the Dryad’s calling trees
No more shall I go riding.
Desolate the Demoiselle d’Ys
For lack of my confiding.
I will not hunt with Duke Robert
For stags, wolves or moors.
For he is dead, and young Gilbert
Cannot track the spoors.
Now I wear a business suit
And step the modern dance,
Yet I recall the harp and flute,
The glory that was France.
All must age – yet I do not.
It is not of my doing
All my friends of old must rot
Whilst I, my curse, am ruing.
Duke Robert’s love was sweet indeed.
Alas, his blood was sweeter.
In my thirsting sanguine need,
I slew Gilbert and Peter.
Adieu to you, fair land of France
Time crashes on unbroken.
Immune am I to fair romance,
My secret stays unspoken.
Centuries wearier than the last
Have not stopped me from seeking,
An answer to my gory past,
An end to evil wreaking.
But Elves that dance in Broceliande
Shall see me there no longer.
Though branches crack in Yvelines
To there I dare not wander.