Beyond the Mists

When Arthur’s Golden Age had ended

and the country fell to mourn,

its true, some beauty fair had ended

like the sparkling morning dew.

The earth took on a darker hue.

But I was one who bore him safely,

far away to other shores,

where the mists hung thick and shrouded,

and all good hearts can be renewed.

We sailed close and he was lifted

in our gentle loving arms.

We sang for him to soothe his sleep.

Our sails of gold and white were lovely.

On tender winds we sailed away

to the land where all know kindness

and the fair can ne’er grow old.

We of the Fae have understanding

of the tales to still unfold.

In the fabled land of apples

Arthur sleeps the sleep of dreams.

We laid him in his Tomb to rest.

There, he awaits the day of waking,

in the land that’s ever blessed.

By Moon Pryderi

(To read more from Moon Pryderi, please visit The Dreaming Path)

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