I am made of mayflowers,
sweet symbol of the spring.
I wait all winter, to watch myself grow,
singing my overture in the shade,
as the sunlight fades away.
My mother walked with great pain,
a crown on thorns in her womb and a pebble in her shoe,
but she carried her flowering child,
until she found the forest and spilled me onto the soil.
Blackbirds call from far away,
as I sleep beneath the thorns,
whispering woods are bewitched and besotted.
I am the Princess of a protected land.