The Giant was aching with an unquenchable thirst,
After many long days of the wretched, drought curse.
So, he wandered the forest in a desperate search,
To find a miracle, and above The Lake, he perched.
The Lake was a lovely, serene sanctuary,
Lush with ivy, moss, and trees of cherry.
Welcome to all except for men,
And now The Giant lurked the glen.
He unsheathed his cracked pot of clay,
And dunked it beneath the calm waves.
He chugged and chugged until there wasn’t a drop left,
Then smiled brightly, unaware of his act of theft.
See, the Lake had made a deal,
And by the witch’s blood, it was sealed.
“Any man who drinks from these tides,”
“Shall forever turn to stone on the hillside.”
The Giant stretched for a second drink,
Cold water tickled his withered fingers pink.
As he sipped the pot, the pink turned to grey,
And The Giant’s debt had begun to pay.
He watched in terror as skin transformed to rock,
Clasped around the clay pot, he desperately fought.
The Giant became a boulder, and his cry was his last deed.
Stone he had become, bound forever, unfreed.