Wrenogal: Act III, i-iii
i
Lydoria splayed out her arms, the blades
of grass beneath her, weaving with her wings,
and sang a song that glided through the glades,
an epic of an errant son who sings—
despite his desperate torment, in the sky,
where Prydien had given him, from pain,
a freed tormentor, now free so to fly
wherever ruin remade in the rain.
And how that Burning Locrien allowed
that pair to prove again what they had known:
that living, even if it must be loud,
bests all the quiet of a blissful throne.
Tho loudness, if not loud to everyone,
is still sound, tho it sounds to only one.
ii
Now see, the others had their bit of say,
said something, too, not anything to scorn,
but now you’ll see Lydoria as day,
forgetting it is no longer the morn.
For Prydien was morning, dawn from night,
and Locrien shone out his noonday sun,
Lydoria is windy evening flight,
and Aeonia speaks when dark has come..
You live now under she who sends the birds,
who is not near as quiet as the rest.
She will appear now, more than in just words,
not only in her songs alone addressed.
For you know not: the Seraph of the Sky
speaks cheerfully the chorus of a lie.
iii
The Wren now glided over ancient trees
that surely hadn’t been seen by fresh eyes,
or any eyes at all—the eye that sees
an unknown face will note its shared surprise.
They found a clearing, leagues into the wood:
fay, natural, bare only of dense trees;
but still dense with something less understood:
the heart loves—but the eye still disagrees.
Yet so enchanted, still they settled down
into the earthy basin, flourishing.
And saw, as Wrenogal’s feet touched the ground,
a woman, lone, her wonder ravishing.
“Who are you to these woods,” said Wrenogal.
She smiled. “Of all things, most lamentable.”