She

The living root bridges speak, in a strange tongue,

Somewhere between the language of violins and

Attention - seeking waterfalls which create pools so

Blue you would think you are dipping your feet in the

Sky and touching the heaven beyond. And she sits

There, still. So still, her eyes are cloudless skies. Blue

So still, one would think her a painting, too surreal

Even in a rainforest. So still, you will think her a part

Of the magic, intertwined with the charms of a place

That doesn't belong to the mortal world.

And he wonders if he should speak to her. And

Choose not to. Who has the heart to throw a stone

Into a still lake, humming the twilight song. Who has

The heart to splash ripples on a canvas that is already

Perfect. And so, he waits, through a winter morning

Through a rainbow that arched over a beautiful

Hill, through dusk which washed the leaves in red

Smoke that could dance in wisps dangling over the

Place like a thousand brushes.

And then t

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wilight arrives with a chill that warms his

Heart. She is still there, curly locks wondering if they

Should lie quietly, making him wonder why they are

Missing a tiara, like her name meant. And he walks

Up to her and thinks 'Hi'.

The heart heaves a sigh.

His smile gives it away, probably.

So, she smiles too.

The quaintest of smilies that slide off her lips like a poem

Escapes the sparkling nib of a fountain pen.

At that precise moment, he understands this is

What he had been riding for, all this while. To meet

Someone whose stillness was a whisper of an Elfish

Lullaby gently putting to rest the wild horses of his

Regret-filled retrospections. That evening, the night

Arrived with starts, so many, he wonders whether

They were eavesdropping on her words were for

Him, mixed with the gushing cool whirlpools below

The cabins wrapped wondering, where her heart was

Crafted, and what diamonds polished those edges

Till nothing remained but a glowing piece of light.