The Naiads
Waters sparkle through the glade,
the mighty rivers made from virgin springs—
Naiads sit and let their weary limbs unwind—
youthful, alluring women—retreat into the shade.
With a beating heart—by rivers and streams—
Naiads, giving birth a quiet start,
Its rippling notes bring peace to heart and mind,
The Naiad’s song plays gently through the air.
Women, long-lived but never truly immortal,
as fountains flow from channels crystal-clear.
Daughters of rivers, at each spring appear—
a sister of the stream, with dripping hair.
They move with grace, their purpose soft and near,
yet dangerous if ever disrespected.
To tend the flow, to guide the waters fair,
they keep the sacred source in balance and repair.
Healers, they sit by pools, by streams, by wells—
nurturing, protective—where the rivulets gleam,
guiding young girls, guardians of the vales,
and watching as the sun retreats in dream.
Pegaeae—of springs—where virgin waters rise,
the mighty rivers born from quiet start.
Crenaeae—of fountains—sing beneath the skies;
Potameides—of rivers—bear their art:
The stream’s swell, a flowing pool, a grand display,
waterfall’s rush, each with a beating heart.
Limnades—of lakes—and Heleionomai—
of marsh and wetland—each a sacred part.
From hidden founts the Naiads bless the land,
with beauty, grace, and fertile, flowing hand.
WoPoLi 
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