The well worn hills had kept their watch
Beneath an azure sky,
The grass grew long upon their slopes
From soil dark and dry
A stream bed split them at their base,
A trickle in this hour,
Nearby a thisle's stem thrust tall
A lonely yellow flower
Fed by dew and sprung from sand
Its roots could barely hold,
Two jewels of green amids the petals
Enticed both sweet and bold
Silken wings powdered purple
Smelled the nectar's blend,
Quietly they did alight
Again, again, and again
Then one hot and wind whipped night
The grass burned all around,
The thisltle wilted in the flames,
The flower fell to ground
When all was lost, the fire passed,
The wings they came once more,
And finding still the petalls yellow
Picked up its precious ore
"The Yellow Flower"
From Grace, twelfth song of Arnath