The slash of ashen rain and snap of rime
That bite through rind to grind the brittle bones.
The rising glare of sun, like chorus hymn,
That bakes the bones like smelting sands to stones.
 
The shifting sand of dunes, in haze of heat,
Like knotting mighty serpents into weave.
The blinding fog of night that stumps the feet,
Like patient hunter-wolves that just won't leave.
 
A drop of water’s worth beyond all wealth—
For what is coin to do when death does come?
The blowing wind that scours the flesh in health
And bones in death, in eerie tunes ahum.
 
Here stands a mighty fort, a smothered husk,
On edge of water hole, with no relief,
Where dwell the monks with stitched eyes by dusk,
The punished souls, as haughty moonlight thief.
 
Within water once stood a forest great,
For water mirrored not desert but woods—
The Twilight Woods of sage and sights await,
A tug to moonlight threads on branching shoots
 
As heavens glow like amethyst alight,
And roses meld in lilies, hyacinth.
Amid the sparking, throbbing stars aflight
While ether hums a music praising Cynth.
 
No serpent slither, beasts to walk the ground,
No owls, or sparrows wild on wind and sky,
No chirping grasshoppers, to buzz around,
For only thrum of fate, a dance to fly.
 
To show the path where all the future lain—
A pebble’s cascade into landslide vast,
A poisoned ear that greatest king hath slain,
No cornered rats to not be bitten fast.
 
And showed the visions, great and small, on leaves,
As moonlight tangled into web from top
To roots and flowers, made as dazzling eaves—
A land of ever-twilight, dawn-lit stop.
 
The monks were tasked to care for forest all,
And walk the sacred paths of knowledge long
To stand at guard at desert fortress wall,
Unmask the seekers seeking sacred song.
 
A foundling monk, the order embraced came,
A seed of greed in heart his buried deep,
For decades, greed a secret kinship claim,
Until the abbot punished them a sweep.
 
The blacken kin in greed, a six and one,
And each a horse, a hubris ridden soul,
To cull the pride, the fare received by none;
And cook the meals for order sennight whole.
 
Yet yearning deep to partake woods, beseech,
The seven monks agreed to loathsome act,
In evening meals, a belladonna each,
And weeping, killed their brothers all by pact.
 
And burned their brothers all at pyre en masse,
From ash and salt, they wrought a box to steal,
A piece of moonlight lit from forest grass,
To partake forest's bounty, brought to heel.
 
From grass to moss, from fern to shrub so slight,
The silver threads unwound in glutton sweep.
The casket, carved of ash and salt so tight,
To cage the forest’s breath in grasping keep
 
But greed—O greed! —that clawed away at heart,
To hollow inside out and fill in dark.
For power strong and deep, but forest’s part
And drunk too deep from sealed in box of brack.
 
To take the heart to mute the sharpened mien;
The forest paths, a writhing labyrinth,
Like autumn wrath, the branches shorn of green,
And warping roots to undulating plinth.
 
The seething dusk, by night, had punished monks—
The future sight they lost much quicker still,
While mundane sight they lost in broken chunks,
As thousand paths of future broke their will.
 
Their each attempt became a thread on eyes.
They knelt at water hole and mercy plead,
Despair at silent water led to lies.
They wept and begged, howling rage, and bled.
 
Their bodies slowly broke with passing years,
And monks, for far too long, a death they yearned.
But death did seek them not, for grove had veered—
Their path of souls was stitched shut, they learned.
 
In horror saw their bodies slowly break,
Till only wights, their bound to chunks of bones
Remained. At last, the pond then stirred awake
And lapped away the wights as forest stones.
 
For many years, the forest broken stayed,
Became a death and dreadful trap for sane,
Recalled in all the lands as glade of frayed,
And known for blinded monks, their folly vain.
 
A pilgrim wandered seven seas and winds,
To seek a tiny spot of idyll piece,
He wore a robe, a dusty grey and pinned,
With sterner hide and kindly face so creased.
 
The pilgrim, far from shattered fortress, came
To seek and walk his future path ahead.
While searching Twilight Woods of renowned fame,
He found the way to fortress lost instead.
 
And found regret of monks before their end,
Who penned of truth, conceit, and folly vast.
The pilgrim found his path, as way his bend,
To right the wrong of past—a task so vast.
 
At night, in sleep he felt the forest weep,
And saw the nightmare, fury writ in sight,
The stench of rotting greed in stones so deep,
A promised idyll glade, a pact in night.
 
"But," argued he, " should not be task of mine,
My soul's fatigued, and all the marrow's drained,"
The forest plead, "Who, if not hands of thine?"
In soothing whispers, grave debate so waned 
 
In sort of wakeful dream, bemused he lay,
And popped his back to echo lingered pain,
Until poppied warmth of rest took away,
His nightmares each, a doubt and worry slain.
 
Compelled by duty, driven towards act,
A tepid doubt but, “If not me, then who?”
Thus, born in courage, set fulfilling pact—
He went away to fate and future woo.
 
With heart in mouth, he kept the moonlight safe
And limped to water hole at fortress edge.
To mend the wounds of centuries-full strife,
He dived in magic pond to shape a wedge.
 
To Bleak Weald, Dusk-Woods, Grove of Screeching Wights—
A land of many names and many routes.
While veiled in gloom and dusk, with looming heights,
It ****** at ashen tears through creeping roots.
 
The grasping claws of forests, seeking moon,
Would turn around at slightest sound to pierce
The hearts. For those who dare disturb are hewn
And strewn apart, to augur insights fierce.
 
A thousand cuts, a thousand deaths a breath—
The screeching wights, a chilling wreath in debt.
The pilgrim wove a tale immense in breadth,
For every year, a drop was bled to whet.
 
The pilgrim hastened into heart of woods
And stumbled fast through death, awaiting prey.
From satchel worn, returned the stolen goods
To woods betrayed—the moonlight, craved and prayed.
 
The claws that rose to heavens shivered once,
Then turned, unfurled, to twist and groan aloud.
The roots, then soaking moonlight inside since,
And vernal leaves regrew to eyes unshroud.
 
The blind and screeching wights were released free.
The pilgrim, honored yew-wrought walking staff.
The moonlight woven into web in glee,
And changes more to set his heart alaugh.
 
The pilgrim wandered out from sacred pond
And saw the fortress rise in glory full.
A year and one he spent to chisel song—
Of Twilight Woods, a warning meant to mull.
 
The jocund forest kept their faithful vow,
An orchard, berries, wooden-cottage small,
A gift of seven-furlong land to sow,
In heart of twilight—safe from rain and squall.
 
Thus, Bleak Weald, Dusk-Woods, Grove of Screeching Wights
Became the Twilight Woods of sage and sights.