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Whispers in the Thorned Grove

In the hush of the elder wood where the moonlight bends, I walked with a silver flute and a trail of friends. Pawprints soft in the moss, eyes bright as stars, Cats at my heels like whispers of who we are. The leaves leaned close to listen, the roots held their breath, For the fae-trees remember both blessing and death. Oh sing, little flute, through the thorn and the gleam, Of fairy queens crowned in a half-forgot dream. Of claws and of curses and wood turned untrue, Of paths that I walked and still somehow I knew. I danced in the court where the bells never rust, Where promises shine and then crumble to dust. A queen on her throne made of petals and bone, She smiled like a riddle best left alone. Her forest was lovely, her forest was wrong, Each branch held a hunger that slept in its song. Oh sing, little flute, soft and sweet, sharp and slow, Of the price fairy kindness is eager to owe. Of cats who see sideways through glamour and lie, And guide foolish bards where mortals should not try. We cut not the wood, no, we learned its true name, For fae-cursed trees burn you with memory and shame. Their rings mark the years of a stolen goodbye, Of laughter that lingered too long to be kind. A black-barked violin once cried in the night, Till my flute taught the shadows to loosen their bite. Oh sing, little flute, clear as dew, thin as thread, Of songs that keep walking when stories are dead. Of queens bound by oaths and cats crowned in grace, And a bard who still hums while she’s leaving the place. If you hear paws at dusk or a crown in the leaves, If the forest speaks softly of things it believes, Play gentle, play honest, play just what is true, The fae hear the heart more than fingers or tune. So sing, little flute, through the wild and the free, Of all that I was and am learning to be. Of fairy queens fading and curses undone, And cats who walk home when the long night is done. When dawn finds the path and the woods let me go, I’ll carry their secrets wherever I roam.