Once upon a time, there was a child who was made of magic
	And her whispers would shoot a school of falling stars against the midnight sky
	And her skin held sunlight in its earth brown slopes
	And her smile was a sliver carved from a full moon
	And her voice?  Was laughter mixed with music
	as she danced with her ancestors under sheets of warm rain
	So she was born
	and soon began to die.
	Magic does not live in all places
	though fairy tales seem to say so
	And yet there are gardens as dry as desert realms
	where weeds are the only flora that dare address the sky
	and whispers carry the hushed call of death
	soiled sheets the only shroud to shield eyes forever sleeping.
	It is here
	in these lands
	where those for which magic is their manna
	wander barren sands for years
	until they are buried in the earth which has destroyed them.