Of Oberon and Laurel
Oberon doubts, the tides will wane,
Maiden nymph, fleeing, takes her root—
Love withdraws like ebbing rain,
A farewell wrapped in bark and mute.
The eel-grass sways, the river sighs,
A parting laced with silent pain,
A dirge without music softly lies,
As Oberon dreams of laurel in rain.
Yet Oberon, with weary gaze,
Bids restless winds to twist and weave,
Through ancient groves where laurel sways,
A ghost of what he cannot grieve.
He whispers low, the night wind stirs,
“Shall magic mend what fate has torn?”
But time has locked her roots in earth,
A voice now wood, a pulse now worn.
Still, in the hush of moonlit streams,
He traces light on trembling leaves,
And in their sighs, he hears her dreams—
A distant song the dawn deceives.
One final touch, a fleeting spell,
Not to return, but to remain—
A crown of laurel, woven well,
To rest upon Titania’s mane.
For love withdrawn is love endured,
And he, a king, must bow to loss,
Yet every bough in twilight cured,
Still sings the name the wind once crossed.
WoPoLi 
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