The Hare's Song
I am the hare—soft of foot,
Carefree, gentle, yet strong of root.
Born of the meadow, wild and wide,
Where Earth is home, and I abide.
The moon is my sister, silver-eyed,
She guards my dreams when shadows bide.
The stars above—my watchers true,
They know my name. They whisper too.
The flowers in the field, they sing—
Old songs of love, of death, of spring.
Their petals speak to hearts that hear,
Of all that's lost, and all that's near.
The stream, she hums a lullaby
That winds her way through moss and sky,
Down to the mill wrapped soft in mist,
Where time forgets the things it kissed.
The deer, they wait till dusk is nigh,
Then move like ghosts beneath the sky.
They bow to dusk, they pass unseen,
Through twilight veils of ash and green.
The lake, it glows with sun’s last breath—
A mirror still, untouched by death.
And should you dare to gently gaze,
You’ll see the world behind the haze.
Call forth the butterflies, sweet and shy,
They dance like spells across the sky.
And in their wings, you’ll find a trance—
A fleeting truth, a sacred glance.
So listen well and walk with care—
The world is old, and I am there.
A hare, a soul, a song, a flame—
And if you listen, you’ll know my name.