dryad brent I can not be sad to be with the white flowers, though some always are crushed when she approaches. I offer her the perfume of my love. The sweet lapping still waters to cool her. I told her I wanted to be King of the Forest. She told me it's not hers to give. She is not Queen, but a weird goddess and I am her mortal consort, never a prince. I want the crushed petals to steam soft perfume. To heal and soothe her wooded limbs That's why she gets so much pleasure from me Because she gets the perfume from me though her magic is her own. 031130 what's it to you? who go blather from