She showed me her wand. It's unlike a devil's torch. Where do you live? If it weren't a dream, I would never wake up.
The wisher’s tramp.
Category: Adventure
Sometime for a friend.
Before dusk the wishers had appeared: They intended. They knew his vows to me, how many ways he loved me. Will I put his tears in a bottle? That would be too terrible for a princess. So there I kept my liveliest treasures…there I wished him goodbye. Oh immortal man, return before the fall.
Like Fire in December
He met me during the solstice, when I was in dire straits. I run ahead, I returned his good watches.
The night of snow.
He casted another spell. The tree lushes dragged a bell for his girlfriend. When she came, behind his golden fence were three dogs, his faithfuls. Yet to take her life he would not. Therefore, he charged them. '' I charge you, by my dear mercy, spare it tonight. I lost it to the wolves. On… Continue reading The night of snow.
Bound with an oath to keep a promise.
Alone in this cold attic, a failing candle. When the sun comes, it shines brighter. Your pretty face, yours for my color. I write you a faithful song. I knit you my true love. Jealousy deceives and real men don't deny until their star shines.
Plea in the night.
Halfway through the dark forest he began to cry: "Please don't despise your fair heart and take my life. My days are still young. These bitter tears I shed." "Why do you cry?", the owl asked. "A witch caught me on her web, and now I travel against my will. The purity of the spell… Continue reading Plea in the night.
Tim and the mermaid.
Tim Once there lived a man and his wife in the woods. They’d gone to settle there after a horrible flood displaced the whole surrounding villages at their former residence. Though it was a strange thing that happened that day, he encouraged his wife and they left. He said to her they could settle somewhere… Continue reading Tim and the mermaid.
Muse at night.
It was as if my lover were taken away. I listened to the tick of the clocks. The night were gay and the birds were still lazy. The same dusty song.
Poetic Diaries of Sylvester Van-Johnson 