Patrick Zver

For generations my kind has dwelled

Amongst these firs and pines,

An indentured servant to anyone

Who happenstance would bring by.

That day I finally saw her

I was a dove atop a hazel tree,

And to my nature would throw down

Whatever that ashen face asked of me.

Her hands were small and calloused,

Because of the lentils she was forced to pry

Out of the sooty hearth, her makeshift bed

From which her name was derived,

Ashputtel, the human embodiment of me.


Although, if I'd have known then

What I now know from immortality,

I'd have made those slippers lead,

And thrown down a rotting pumpkin

To serve as her dilapidated taxi.

For the Prince and Ashputtel's lineage,


Would stretch far off in time,

To a point when their dominion,

Would begin to corrupt and malign,

The ancestral forest I called home,

Desecrating it with modernity.

Leaving me, the last of my kind

Fettered to a corpse, a fairy god mother

Forever stuck in eternity.