In the beginning, a time before time,
when the world first danced to the sunrise song
that Architaedeus sang,
a garden He planted in the sweet virgin earth.
The stars, like jewels in the heavens,
did He lightly hang.
And in that bright and sparkling morn,
He appointed the shining faery folk
to tend the garden of His sowing,
and in the fulness of His knowing,
     He gave the Feielanns.

Once came a time—Deluge was it called—
when the world first trembled before the storm-filled clouds
of Architaedeus' liquid wrath.
Merciful He bade the Feie, innocent of the vile blood of vile man,
to go—swiftly! go—down His
silently ordained path.
So, filling their bursting lungs with sacred air,
they fled through a time that belonged not to them.
Blinding bursts of purest light, purest yearning
for the time—seconds away? aeons?—of their returning
     to the Feielanns.

Now the earth's bleak autumn breaks
upon the land once blest, now blest again,
by Architaedeus' kindly grace.
Encroaching man, with tools of iron, trespasses
meadow and hill, forest, rill,
to chase (if they could) the Feie from their place.
But even in this dark'ning day
remains a sanctuary:
The keepers of the garden blest
withdraw, to where they find their rest:
     to the Feielanns.

When, in some distant night, scarlet as blood,
the last of the Feie stares, trembling, at the world
now governed by the lawless laws of men,
her heart will turn and flee across the years—
a comet streaking through a starless sky—
to home—her home—back to her home again.
To die, extinguished like a wisp of smoke;
a spark, a final wink of light … a dark;
to lie caressed by the mother arms of home,
her tear-stained cheek kist gently by the loam
     of the Feielanns.