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The Kings Three Sons Part 1

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Below is the poem entitled The Kings Three Sons Part 1 which was written by poet Erica Szabo. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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The Kings Three Sons Part 1

One day I went strolling on the lane that cut through the woods. My mother had warned me; as mothers often do to, “Stay away from the Thorn Woods, cut through the fields instead.” But like all children do, the mystery of the Woods, and her warning, did nothing but encourage me to venture on. It was light and airy in that woods, not how the fear in my mind made it seem at all. As I ventured on, each step brought pride and courage into my chest. I came upon a strange fellow sitting upon a log. He wore a dress, so to speak, And his feet were bare. And as children often do, I stopped to ask, “Who are you?” With a start, he jumped to his feet and bent down to look me closely in the eyes. So close that the beard that hides his face tickled my nose. “Who am I?” he shouted, sounding shocked by such a question. “Who are YOU?” He leaned back, pointing a bony finger into my chest. Stuttering, I said, “I asked you first.” With a laugh he stood up, “I am the Enchanting Wizard of Raven.” “Why are you here?” “I've come here to tell you a story. Now sit.” Eagerly, I sat upon the forest floor. “This story,” the wizard said, “Was told to me by my mother, as her mother told it to her, and her mother's mother told it to her mother, and her mother’s mother mother told it to her mother’s mother. As so one till the first line of wizard mothers.” He began. “This story is not a happy one, if I remember correctly. As most stories are not.” He sat back on to the log, pulling a pipe from out his sleeve. With a puff, it started smoking, and the trundle of heavy smoke flowed down to the dirt of the floor. “There was once a King who lay dying. I do not know if he was a King of north and south or east and west, but he was a King who reigned far from here. As he lay dying in his bed, he asked to see his sons.” He paused only to take a drag from the smoldering pipe, The smoke smelling sweet like apple pie.

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