Bittersweet and Unchained

I hope that you've found your happiness, so long has your search taken you over mountains and through caves. God bless the humble heart that carries with it strength for the days to come. You see, now, before you lies a road of light where each step you take brings you to a wonderful future. Reach out to the light and grab your star. Make your happiness your own because you took a chance and tried for it, not because someone handed it to you.
Bittersweet and unchained lie the tears upon my cheek. I weep not for the sorrow of my wounded soul, but for the joy of seeing you happy. Time moves ever-forward, leading us to places unknown and into darkness unseen, but I believe beyond believing that upon your shoulder you carry an angel who will guide you through the pitch black of midnight. Every night I will pray for your freedom and upon the wind you will hear my voice singing you back to the light.
This I promise: That I will be here whenever you should need me, when comfort is even beyond my power to give. To abandon you would be to abandon myself, and, as reciprocity goes, someday when I am in dire need of the favor returned, I know in my heart, naive and hollow, that you will be there for me. To be held in your arms is a promise of forever I'll never keep, but worth more than the gold of a thousand kings.
Bittersweet and unchained lies my love, a shattered stone on the pavement of life. Pick it up and carry it with you always as the gift it is given, for I fear with good reason that no other ever will...

Brenna's Song

While walking through the vacant streets
one dark and misty day,
a bright young man named Adalardo
was going on his way.

He was a man of high esteem
who carried on his back
a rather unyieldy stash of toys
in a tattered sack.

His golden curls would bob and bounce
as he took his curious stash
to all the children whose moms and dads
didn't have the cash.

He'd smile and with a wink announce,
"Come see what's in my bag.
A toy for each dear little one
whose dress is just a rag."

Around him all the kids would swarm
to gain a shiny prize:
a sailboat or a game of dice,
a doll with blinking eyes.

He'd laugh and watch them play until
their mothers' voices brayed
to summon them to eat some food
and settle for the day.

One by one they all would leave,
a thank you on their lips,
their newfound treasures fastened tight
in their childish grips.

So Adalardo took his sack,
now that it was drained,
and proceeded to walk to his home
as it began to rain.

But as he wandered down the path
he, in the shadows, spied
a curious sight, as sightings go:
an orphaned pair of eyes.

These eyes were shaped like oval disks
and deepest gray in hue,
like stormclouds that come out to hide
the sky's unending blue.

He smiled his smile that'd charm a snake
and reached out with his hand,
to which the eyes responded by
emerging to brighter land.

There stood before him a little girl
as fragile as a wraith
who looked as though she had no food
or home in which to bathe.

Her long black hair was filled with knots,
adorning a crown of twigs.
Her fey expression held much fear.
Her flesh: the pink of pigs.

She bit her lip and took a breath
and when her voice was heard
it had the timbre of a lonely lark
or other singing bird.

"Sir," she asked quite timidly,
"could there maybe be
something in that beautiful sack
for a little girl like me?"

His eyes fell softly to the ground
for here, before his gaze,
was the neediest child of all,
alone in all her days.

He had no toys to offer her
for all had been unpacked
by all the children who'd come before
and reached into his sack.

"Dear child," he said in his gentle voice
as soothing as the sea,
"what is your name and why do you seek
a toy from the likes of me?"

"I know you're not a stranger, Sir.
I've seen you many times,
bringing smiles to ones like me,"
was her quick reply.

"My name is Brenna, I've not a past,
or future, as it seems.
No one wants to take the time
to help fulfill my dreams."

"My mother died of cholera,
my father was a drunk,
and now I'm left to roam the streets,
rejected by the monks."

Adalardo felt right then
his heart break in two,
for he had no toys to give.
T'was nothing he could do.

Brenna must have sensed this for
he saw, across her face,
a sadness spread from ear to ear,
a tiny tear escape.

He shook his head of golden hair,
as shining as his heart,
a smile creeping across his face,
as he revealed this part:

"Dear Brenna, as you plainly see,
I've no more toys to give,
but a greater gift you will receive
than any child who lives."

She looked up at him eagerly
smiling through her pain,
and ran into his open arms
now dripping wet with rain.

He cradled her close to his steady heart
and kissed her orphaned head,
and instructed to her carefully
to listen to what he said.

"The greatest gift that God has given
wasn't any toy,
but the flesh and blood of him:
the life of his boy."

"I cannot give my children, nor
my riches nor my wealth,
for kids I've none and all my wage
I need for my health."

"But today I offer you something
better than the rest.
For you're the one whose purest heart
now deserves the best."

And so, without another word,
from his lips there sprang
a melody so sweet and sharp
it dulled the python's fang.

In minor chords and harmonies
that blended with the rain
he gave the gift of his glorious voice,
this is what he sang:

"Upon the streets at night there dwells
a long lost faery queen
who dances with the grace of swans,
the springtime on her wings."

"Her name, too sweet to here foretell,
is in a lover's sigh,
and in the tears of orphaned ones
who never cease to cry."

"Sweet Brenna, gift of heaven's grace,
a raven wisp divine,
will you dance for me tonight
and bid the sun to shine?"

"Your dusky eyes call to the moon
and quell the grown-men's fears,
give hope to those who have it not
and dry the orhpan's tears."

"Sweet Brenna, child of nature's womb
for whom the angels long,
your dance forever lives in us
and this is your song."

He finished with a sweet, warm note
and looked upon her face.
The brightest smile adorned her lips
and filled her eyes with grace.

"Thank you, Sir, you do not know
how much this really means.
The greatest gift in all the world
you've given unto me."

"The children's fancy toys will bend
and break with time, you see,
but what you've given is the greatest gift:
Immortality."

And so she walked away from him,
fading in the mist,
never to be seen again
by Adalardo Flist.

But on every rainy day he'd
go into the street
and sing the sweet, sad melody
to the one's he'd meet.

And so the song of Brenna soon was
sung by young and old
proving that life's greatest gifts have
nothing to do with gold.

And as Adalardo lay dying when
old and gray with age,
the final words he said to the world
were of Brenna's sage:

"The other's rich-filled lives will bend
and break with time, you see,
but Brenna's given me the greatest gift:
Immortality."

Pray for the Strength/ The Touch of the Master's Hand

From beyond the grasp of midnight a voice cries out, straining to keep her head above the water. Some days are easy, others are hard, but still she continues to fight, praying each day for the strength to keep on. Whose gentle arms enfold? Whose shoulder has she to cry on? Not that of any mortal, but only of the God to whom she prays every night.
"Who am I to ask, 'why me?' and 'why this?' when I do not ask, 'why give me these talents?' or 'why give me this stream of good luck?'"
So she sits in her room, the dark shadows of the night creeping in silently to ivade her loneliness, and prays not for answers, but for trust and for strength and for patience. Beyond the pain she feels there is life. Beyond the tears she cries there is happiness. She may be alone, but someday, that sweet someday which is like a fairy tale to her, she will find someone and he will ask that they be alone together, and he'll mean it, and not betray her. Not fill her mind with lies and false hopes.
A golden heart may be broken, but at the touch of the maker's hand her voice will sing again. Someday she will be chosen from the others and given a chance to dance, but only if she finds the strengh inside of her to keep waiting, even when it seems as though the last light has gone out. Pray that she finds the strength to keep singing, even though the world around her is deaf to her music.

The Touch of the Master's Hand
It was battered and scarred,

And the auctioneer thought it

Hardly worth his while

To waste his time on the old violin,

But he held it up with a smile.

"What am I bid, good people", he cried,

"Who starts the bidding for me?"

"One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?"

"Two dollars, who makes it three?"

"Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three",

But, No,

From the room far back a grey haired man

Came forward and picked up the bow,

Then wiping the dust from the old violin

And tightening up the strings,

He played a melody, pure and sweet,

As sweet as the angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer

With a voice that was quiet and low,

Said "What now am I bid for this old violin?"

As he held it aloft with its' bow.

"One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?"

"Two thousand, Who makes it three?"

"Three thousand once, three thousand twice, Going and gone", said he.

The audience cheered,

But some of them cried,

"We just don't understand."

"What changed its' worth?"

Swift came the reply.

"The Touch of the Masters Hand."

And many a man with life out of tune,

All battered with bourbon and gin,

Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd

Much like that old violin.

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,

A game and he travels on.

He is going once, he is going twice,

He is going and almost gone.

But the Master comes,

And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,

The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought

By the Touch of the Master's Hand.

~Myra Welch~