Beneath the forest
Through great sylvan years
Green needles of pine
And wide outstretched leaves
A wind ever whispering
Though on occasion to wail
Whipping through the boughs
Of these far distiant slopes
Even at harshest
The world here is mild
Unknown to war, famine or want
The creatures are gentle
The winters the same
The only men are wanderers
Passing through the mists
Though curious
I never dare to trail them
For to me they seem as spirits
Passing through these forests
For as of yet I have never seen
A single one of them return