The rolling plains give way to the deep forests,
Dense and full of springtime vigor.

Yet far within, these woods are thick with moss and untold mystery.

Many that enter are never heard from again,
but few will tell you that it is always their choice,

As they found something far better than anything they had left behind.

I sit here on the edge of these woods,
the warm smoke of my pipe faintly combating the crisp submountain air.

I sit here in the evening, not long before dusk slowly unravels the sky, to reveal the stars once more.

I take a draw from my pipe, its light beginning to show shadows on my face, as the daytime hours dwindle.

The sun sets as I place my pipe back into my well-worn coat pocket.

As twilight arrives, I set off into those peculiar woods,
And I hope I will not return