Vivaciously sculpted trees
Create verdure
That only few trespass into
But the night is getting older
Nothing we can hold about in our transient tips
In this jungle, there are watered tresses called brooks
Finding all of this are books and the paper
On the forests of yesterday's trips to the forest
Ruined by progress meant for the future
Paradise is lost in the edifice of time, and now barren
Somehow, the path I took in its profundity
Is the right one
But, hey thanks for stealing my poem's title