The winds, they were strong,
The shadows, they were long,
In the forest of your birth,
To which you give no worth.
The stones, they grow as mountains tall,
Only, the mountains were never meant to fall,
The distant sun, a hopeful tale,
Watches over worlds oh-so fair.
The waters run from all but one,
Don't you blink, they might be gone,
I say "might", but hope often lies,
He who leaves is he who dies.
All the strings and drums,
And many a-blissful songs,
Which the leaves never did hear,
They blanket someone ever near.
Not a drop of blood, nor a strand of hair
Would be enough for you to bear
The sighing wind upon your wasted shoulders
As the last echo of your voice would fade,
Stranded in between the clouds of boulders.
The leaves and grass are still,
On their skin the sun they feel,
In the forest of its birth,
The kingdom of forgotten wealth.