The Little People

The old ones
The little people
Those elusive
Almost fictional fae

Unrestrained
And unpredictable
Oh, so effusive
Always eager to play

They tempt the fearful pious
To soon regretted secretly joyful sin
But the still damp heathens grin
Boldly walking where the vail is thin

Nothing this world can deny us
We know our past and fear not our kin
Our heads held almost as high as our chin
Fearless and wise on our path we begin

Newly adorned upon wrist or brow
We see the world and know it will bow
We see everything clearly now
For we have grown wise and know how

But listen well, those island-born
Though your sire be of hoof and horn
The rose you grasp will still bear thorn
And soon all that gleams is worn

If you keep your thoughts not guarded well
You may slip easily to their entrancing spel
And though you fear not the once-born hell
The tricksters will leave you with only one tale to tell

A tale of unearthly joy and bliss
Of indulgence in pleasure like a forbidden kiss
Endless feasts with no pain or illness
No shame nor sorrow, this world you won't miss

If you heed not well what the teachings warn
And stop near their land to rest before the morn
You may wake from only a night... or two... you'd have sworn
To find that all you own is tattered and torn

Your parents passed on to the summerland
Your children long since fully grown
Your voice hardly more than a feeble moan
And you a senile old wanderer, lost and alone

The ecstatic pleasure they give
With no malice or wicked intent
To share their joy with all that lives
Is, in their hearts, all that is ever meant

Heathens, though we may be
In the eyes of those who cannot see
But of two dispersed to many are we
Balance, in our world, is the skeleton key

So beware those alluring innocent ones
Who are of Her and Her land alone
For they know nothing of consequence or constraint
Have no obligation and see naught for which to atone

A carefree life is careless and fruitless
Hardly seen
A light barely shone
Nothing to care for
A garden where nothing is grown

Short and empty
Nothing is reaped if nothing is sewn
And you may be left confused, lost, And all on your own