Midnight Triste

The girl who loved a sidhe,

well, she was a foolish lass.

Hair like long, thick ribbons,

skin so white and shining,

and eyes green as the misty forests,

she could have had any man that breathed,

all except, of course, the sidhe.

The girl who loved a sidhe,

who walked by night for a glimpse of he,

a lordly fae so charming,

knew not what elsewhere brewed.

An arrangement atwixt a warrior of men,

and her own aging father.

This warrior, he was a jealous man,

and honed his iron blade for blood.

When 'ere his bride-to-be would walk,

the bridegroom was sure to follow.

Once, just once,

out of some strange interest,

the sidhe came out into the moonlight,

and the girl who loved a sidhe,

she cried for joy.

The warrior of men,

filled with hate,

gave out a battle cry.

The girl who loved a sidhe,

her scream pierced the night,

and as she moved to save her love,

she fell dying at his feet.

The warrior of men,

he went away crazed,

full of a sidhe's mad stare.

And as he went,

the girl passed on,

ne're again to wake at sunlight.

The girl who loved a sidhe,

from that point on and ever more,

dined in fae hills,

and slept in fae bowers,

never to know death again.


AN: The title was supposed to be a play on words. In french 'trist' means 'sad.' It sounds like the english 'tryst,' a meeting between lovers.