One spring morn I stopped upon the fairy hill.
The sun twinkled through the lone Hawthorn tree
like tiny pixies dancing between its faint pink petals.
They drift down in lazy arcs taken off by the winds
or settling in the copper ringlets of my hair,
creating a petal crown.
What's a queen without a crown?
I am the fairy queen of this fairy hill.
No mortal can harm a single copper hair,
so long as on lives my beautiful tree.
I'll grow strong wings to fly against winds
and then, I too, can dance among its petals.
When winter comes, the ground will be littered with my petals.
No more shall be my fairy crown.
I'll fall into a dreamless sleep when snow blows on the winter winds,
buried deep under the hill.
The magic has been lost; now dies my tree.
This raging storm rips at my hair.
The sun soaking through my hair
I know miss. Sweet smelling flower petals
elude me still. You beckon me, my Hawthorn tree.
I arise to find my fairy crown
has returned to me. The queen of the hill
has returned; wash over me warm spring winds.
Many years have been carried on these winds
and still no mortal hand has harmed a single hair.
I'm still the fairy queen upon this fairy hill.
Down, down, down will fall these petals
as winter comes again. So too will this crown;
and someday so will this tree.
So sturdy is this Hawthorn tree,
I fear it'll never fall. So on blows these winds;
please won't you take my crown?
Only I can hurt my single hair.
In anger I'll scatter my beloved petals,
and I'll still be here, never leaving this hill.
Winter winds please pluck this crown from my accursed hair.
I'll howl under my tree, cursing the faint pink petals.
Here I'll remain to haunt this hill.