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Half-Elven Songs
Ill Wind, Ill Fruit

A western storm wrapped round a cherry tree
And shook that tree till every branch was sore,
Till every blossom fell from every twig
And every twig was bent, and each leaf tore,
And come the fall, what ugly fruit it bore!
What ugly fruit those wounded branches bore!

Ill wind, ill fruit,
The seasons trickle by.
Ill wind, ill fruit,
Ill born, swift die.

All round it, other trees bore cherries red,
But every cherry there was stormcloud grey
And fragrant with the smell of western rain,
As repugnant as any grave's decay,
And when she could, she hid the fruit away,
The cherry tree, she hid her fruit away.


As seasons turned, the tree bloomed bright once more,
And once again bore fruit of scarlet red.
The songbirds took the cherry pits away
To lands where western winds would never tread.
The grey fruits died, and no birds ate them dead,
They smelled like rain, and no birds ate them dead.


I touch my ears and hear a western rain,
I feel the western lightning in my hands.
You seek to hide away the short-lived grey
But please recall, the false fruit understands
Your every word, and dreams of other lands,
Yes, every word, and dreams of other lands....


But fruit has no place in the western sky.
I've outlived clouds, and you will see me die.

Simutronics Corporation

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