[b][u]Dirge of the Dryad[/u][/b]

Follow the hills into the woodland tide,
An emerald sea that leaves the city behind.
Tread the path of a dryad's ghost
But tarry not near the scarp by the coast.
There by the cliff sits a cottage with an unstringed bow,
And of the one who wields it, it's best not to know.
Stay light on your feet and fly fast to the copse
That surrounds the grave of an ancient cyclops.
There on the ground is a rare bud of a flower
That only blooms at the top of the hour.
On the eve of a hunter's moon right at midnight
The indigo petals blossom in the fiery moonlight.
It was a gift, you see, from the dryad to the dead.
"A memento for the one I could never see" or so she said.
Unrequited love and a jealous hunter
Caused the night of an irreversible blunder.
An arrow flew true into the eye of the giant,
In whose hands the hunter's bones were soft and compliant.
A dead cyclops and a hunter now crippled,
Must jealousy always end in crimson stipple?
Blood now shed and a dryad's heart broken,
All that was left was her meekest of tokens.
It's said that soon thereafter the dryad's tree
Dried up and died unexpectedly.
A mystery to most but not to us of the forest:
The cause of death was heartbreak first and foremost.