She is the one upon the hill,
eyes cast to the forever falling sky;
She is the one atop the clouds,
never aware of the coming autumn.
She is the Spring Diviner.

Stories of her various processions
arose across the dying town,
of her miracles to reinvigorate
forgotten times…
That once the stars realigned
her hands rose to the gods–
not in prayer,
but in demand.

She is the Spring Diviner.
She is the one who never found girlhood,
and instead found divinity in passing trees;
She is the one who cannot stop dreaming,
and will never truly come back again.

The birds carry her across the land
for she is in search of another blessing,
to find something to cure
but always fleeting…
Her feet lay upon this silver earth
and the grass turns to spun gold–
breathing in miracles,
and sewing prices too big to carry.

She is the one who is never truthful,
or perhaps too ignorant of her gift;
She is the one whom many love,
but will always hate in the end.
She is the Spring Diviner.