In the meadow, where I walked, crickets sang of sparrow...
I paused because a lament it was: the tale of Bolt and Arrow.
She flew among the stars, they sang, in a field of felling fog,
while listening to the nightingale sing, about the trilling frog.
She slept within the Moon's embrace, awoke with Sun, who gave her grace.
Quick as wind, she was a sparrow, so her name they gave was Arrow.
Love she felt for the peace it dealt– in the meadow where she'd bed.
It filled her heart and refused to part; and so, for love, she's dead.
Days crept on in the summer heat; new foes arose and now we meet.
To slither here upon the ground, he never ever made a sound.
Quick as silver was his jolt, so the serpent's name they gave was Bolt.
In the last of light, the serpent spread, and blindly caught a sparrow.
He squeezed and pressed, he didn't know, his prey was little Arrow.
"Farewell fair sparrow", the crickets cried, as she fell within his maw.
Red skies and fireflies were the last she ever saw.
As Bolt uncurled to see his prey, for whom he'd cruelly slain,
it was a shock, for what he found, did stop his heart in strain.
This great beauty's life he'd taken– his kill, was now in vain.
Bolt did weep, and Death did see, his grief for Arrow's pain.
So Death took Bolt, in grief of loss, and summoned all to see.
He laid sweet Bolt and Arrow down upon a bed of moss,
In willow bark and heather limb amongst the leaves of trees.
"Lovers, these two, they should have been!", cried the crickets and the bees.
"Sing aloud, lament my friends, honor life’s release!"
Death proclaimed, for all to hear, as he stood upon their barrow.
So sing they did–a sweet lament–the tale of Bolt and Arrow.

Bolt & Arrow

I Alone