unlike a gift
A princess cried into her pillow.
She was blessed by birthright and virtue
but cursed, for reasons unseason'd
with an unstaid love.
She always wondered how she’d know if a particular feeling was ‘Love.’
She’d asked everyone - her mother, her governess, even the gardener.
She had a thousand questions.
“Does love come into being through will and intention, or does it break, suddenly, like waves on a rocky shore?” She’d asked.
Would there be a moment she’d recognise - like an artist proclaiming a work finished?
Was ‘love’ a value exchange - or just a transitory metonym for lust?
But no one, if knowing, would say and it drove her mad.
Such woes have furnished many a prayer but she wasn’t about to ask a priest.
She finally decided to ask the Wizard, inviting him up for a cup of Malmsey (a rare and luxurious wine).
“Love is a magical thing,” he’d said, taking a slow drag on his very long stemmed pipe, “not at all like a gift.” Adding, “You can give your love away - every kind of your love - and not be left with less than you started with.”
‘Wizards’.. she fumed inwardly, after he’d left. What on earth did THAT mean?
.
.
A Christmas Playlist:
daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_12.mp3
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unstaid = unsettled
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