Little Nitika – An Angel of Precious Stones
On Merlin’s mossgrown country lanes, through copse and rose-decked trellises, quietly trots a horde of spears, flakes of plumes the branches powder.
A whippet pack scents out the trail, a teasing tongue licks at the hooves of gentle palfreys delicate, tinkling laughter stirs ev’ry leaf.
A-sparkle in the coppices, but silence darkens ‘twixt the boles. Fanned by the blowing of the horns every rose doth look on fire, and crimson patches fool the pack.
Quietly the game escaped and its slender horn blows worldly thro’ the verses which were woven: Meshed network of the magic sports, wherein the hunters were involved, before they strayed in the forest.
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