Grima

- Beruthiel

A Ballade

Behold, the doors have framed my prayer
Of golden runes and mead strung rain.
Indeed a morn transformed to hair
And fated ever to retain
A crystal chill; Eyes entertain
All mortal thought that mouth defies
Those blessed about her, and mundane
As from my heart to death she flies.

Disgrace she fears, to ever share
Ashamed of me and unread Thane.
For I oppose a follied snare,
Spell binding Mearas think profane.
Now grovel, bent by power arcane
Noting direction of her eyes
Vow vainly to forget again,
As from my heart to death she flies.

When orb was thrown and not a chair,
Assuming watchers weren't insane,
Could "wise" suspect a puzzle there?
Perhaps a valour lost in pain.
Love through disloyalty, attain?
More likely hasten my demise!
Too lofty to regard what's plain,
As from my heart to death she flies.

No curse or kicks can shift this stain,
My ugly end the gods devise.
And so become a wizard's bane,
When from my hand to death he flies.