The Tale of Luis, The Lost

In a town near the forest, where Rowan trees grow,
Where the wind speaks in voices of times long ago,
Where the stones whisper secrets, and the rivers hum,
A girl was born as the Brent Geese come.

Her cradle was warm, from a hearth full of flame,
Luis, they called her, the Rowan tree’s name.
Beneath little red berries and a sky so wide,
Kept away from the wood where strange creatures hide.

Olgam’s tongue branded her fate into bark,
Stars at her birth burned first golden, then dark.
She grew in the winter, so white was her hair,
Eyes the color of dusk, with a voice full of air.

She’d whisper to trees who oft’ sang to her back:
The Elder, the Willow, the Hawthorn-Black.
And at times when her curiosity turned into an ache
She’d name every lost child and leave the place slaked.

One autumn evening, when the sun hung low,
She saw a man standing with a stag’s shadow.
Eyes like a lichen, bright green as a vine,
His voice traveled slowly, like sap down a Pine.

He left behind no footprints, but brought fog and frost,
He spoke to her of stories that were long ago lost.
With hands that thundered and a voice that rained,
He wrapped up her heart in a silk-wrapped chain.

She met him at night where the stream bends wide,
Where the veil is thin and the dead still abide.
He whispered her secrets and kissed down her skin,
And promised a life that would never dim.

But this life was a lie that could flicker and fade,
And truth hidden in dreams is a trick well played.
He was fair, yes, but all creatures are fair,
And within his charmed smile no soul was there.

He asked her for gifts, from her own strange world:
A feather, a ribbon, and her hair uncurled.
He took them all gladly with greed in his eyes,
Till the life once within her had withered and dried.

In moonlight she waxed, in sunlight she waned,
She walked through the village hollow and drained.
Soon, she entered the forest with her mouth mute,
Where her skin turned to leaves, her bones turned to roots.

His love was false and had a hunger deep.
It fed on her wake, and it drank on her sleep.
Watch out for those who chase after illusions of bliss.
Lest they lose life from their bodies, exactly like this.

It’s springtime again, when the fire burns red,
They say that she walks where no mortals may tread.
A girl made of branches with a mouth stuffed with leaves,
Whose lost, crying out for the one who deceived.

So ends this tale of young Luis, The Lost,
Who bartered her life, never minding the cost.
She entered the forest, where strange creatures play
Who gave her eternity, and an ache that will stay.

For these creatures will keep what they make their own,
And it’s hard to complain once you’re turned into stone.