The Soul Tree

No tree stood like The Soul tree.
Not green not brown but white through.
The people revered it as it grew.
For the soul of a child was linked to the tree.

Miracle was sought when Sveta was born.
For no healer nor mage could cure her.
Her loving mother would not deter.
And in front of The Soul tree, her life was sworn.

"I leave my life at your roots! Oh great tree.
My child of but a day already the love of my life.
For if not you can resolve this strife,
take her unto you and me in too for free."

So sayin on the wintery night,
her mother left her to the tree's ward.
The flesh went leaving the soul in shards.
Little Sveta unable to even cry of her blight.

Morning arose as is in inevitable delay.
Her mother faster than the wind, apprehension on her face.
Lo! Behold a miracle to her gaze!
No longer blighted and pure as snow her baby lay.

White locks and eyes and a pure white smile.
Like angels that did nor thought any bad.
A charm, the innocence wrought love as none had,
the people all besotted and, took no while.

The tree had made her life beautiful.
But mages warned of the holy connection.
As long as one lived the other prospered with affection.
And if either fall so shall the other as was fateful.

But Fate was kind to let them live.
Svelta now grown gorgeous.
The tree as young as her and righteous.
And happiness had no opposite to give.

The white locks now flowed like a water fall,
The blemishless face wrought by God's hand.
Her crystal eyes weaved magic like a wand.
Made her the dream of all young men, hearts toll.

On her slender neck the diamnod bequethed falls.
Her only inheritance the jewel it sat.
Crowned by her and made self more sought.
With the slow rise and fall of her chest did it fall.

Many a Hercules sought her in wedlock.
But one loved her like one had nor will.
Alas he was poor and ugly and lived up a hill.
Rejection he swallowed and for her would have the hemlock.

Then came the destined day.
Rode into town the rouge of the hovel.
Handsome as Apollo, sly as the Devil.
Many a lady his charm had slay.

Fate t'was Svelta fell for his grace.
Honey was no sweeter than his words.
Nor feather softer than his caresses.
Slowly he fed love into the poor girl's ways.

Many a town folk warned their child.
"Vile and evil is he,
Svelta, falleth not thee."
But love is foolish and blind and deaf and wild.

The rougue she chose over the bumbling fool.
The dashing handsome sport was dear.
True love is never worth, always mere
dust or less, before the eyes, the tool.

The true love hurt lik only true love can.
Like a million barbs of poison sting.
Tearing at the flesh no way to cringe.
Never forgotten and shall never wan.

The union of the thorn with the rose.
A miraculous mistake He made.
He, at the altar swore, as not to be swayed.
The rose no longer for all, but just prose.

The lovely night was spent in his arms.
But it was not without cost.
For greed he married and to greed he lost.
Turning the night bloody with her blood in swarms.

He was chased in vengence for the lost love.
The tree now browned and dyin with hurt
The scoundrel, alas too evil to twart.
Smote the only love and blood spilled how!

The tree so white so pure and oh so free.
Bears tresties to all that transpired.
So red as blood of the love in tragedy mired.
No tree stood like the soul tree.