Queen Of The Butterfliesby_Lady1SensuaL1Fire_©
Her hair shone blue-black like raven wings,
Birds in the great oak trees, cease to sing,
So they may listen to tender voice of the Queen of Butterflies.
That captures all who hear her,
Whether they are far or near.
Her soft ruby lips glistened like fresh strawberries,
As they moved gently in her ancient songs,
That makes you feel as though you belong
To the mystical forests of times long past
Causing your human heart to beat so fast.
The Queen of Butterflies renews life and all things around her,
With her gentle strength made up of earth wind and fire.
Noticing how the little forest animals around her thirst,
She will always place them above her; always first.
Leaning down upon the cold grey stone well,
She blew softly down the great darkness below,
Where the water resides; she casts a spell.
Commanding the life’s liquid to arise,
And it did, so slowly, yet surely.
Suddenly the surface of the well fills and swells,
To overflowing with the crystal liquid of life.
Her voice resonating like a magical fife*
Her majestic crimson and gold gown, flowed around her,
As she moved slowly away, allowing the animals to sip the water,
Nourishing them but the surrounding plants at the same time
Renewing life once more, causing the vines to soar and climb.
As their brown leaves turn green with renewed vitality.
The Queen of Butterflies smiles softly,
Her golden crown glittering brightly in the sun,
She looked around her others who thirsted, but there were none.
After all the forests’ animals have sipped upon the waters,
Their thirst quenched, she commanded the well’s level to lower
To its normal state beneath the cold surface of the stones.
Causing the well to shudder and groan.
With a graceful sweep of her hand,
The animals return to their part of the land
Where routine will resume,
With every tree whispering and roses abloom.
The Queen of Butterflies is of grace and beauty,
Her kindness legendary among each ancient faery,
Her voice of song,
So lovely and soft, yet strong.
You might even catch a glimpse of her,
A touch of crimson or gold,
Or even a mane of raven’s wing so bold.
Her spirit is ethereal,
Yet her protectiveness of those around her, is very real.
Note: fife written in the second paragraph means a small high-pitched flute similar to a piccolo.
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