The Wrong Dance.
At the end of midwinter’s day,
The bad fey have always come out to play
In a place where the icicles droop down towards the bogs
Whispers of the avalanche place black elves who sing,
Echoes from distant ice are the trolls at that dread fling
all accompanied by moss nyrads hums from dead logs
All potent curses of ill luck
mix there on the torn and frozen muck
while goblins wave their phalluses in time
Phalluses serviced by pixies of despair
that like the feelings in their care
give attention that knows no depths or limit
Broken raged men of bones, whirl silently
their heads carried in their arms, trying to see
the places where they somehow came apart
and the cruelest kings and queens of night
are carried in by barrow wights
To loom as fell runes shadows amidst the crowd
Unlucky dancers unknowingly are marked
and will die in the gatherings later part
only marks like a cloud of willowisps glide over darkened snow
Most of those kinds of really hidden things
truly immortal blackened and unholy dreams
are passed to and fro by those fey who know
The decimation when performed
Ensures that the yet unborn
Will be ruled like all who’ve ever come before
The wild hunt itself stands a nearby vigil
Silently waiting for some unknown signal
every horned head bowed and wholly still
This is the last event of fey or man
never despoiled by lights hand
And all it offers is a kind of freedom
For now it is time for the marked to know
to try to escape with nowhere to go
as the lights blink out in but a moment
While all other kinds, they are asleep
even lonely stars may weep
while shadows step across the snow
Saul Scudder, 1999