MELITA
Lily must’ve kept the secret for a long time – because no sooner than she’d enjoyed petting and scratching the beautiful cat, did she alter, change, and morph again. A little songbird, not so garish or opulent as others, but not insignificant either, causing the bright smile to widen on the youth’s face. A beautiful, mellifluous melody followed, and she was suddenly so distracted from whatever tasks they’d had, coerced and cajoled into the ditty, into the strains, into the ebullience and reel of Lily’s magnificent talents and merits. “I think I like this one better,” she whispered, and laughed all the same, Fangorn hissing in accord but incapable of holding the same reverent tones. Melita was suddenly, almost instantly, reminded of her sister, of her twin, of the separated piece of her soul, of her gentle trills, of her sunshine hums, of playing amongst and amidst wildflowers with songs on her lips and generosity in her heart. She removed her hands from the bird, but sat down, chin in her palms while her arms sank upon her knees, mesmerized and rapt for the miniature recital.This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
