Shadowed in a moonbeam
mirrored by the starry night;
I wake to hear the garden chimes
swaying within the wind's impatience,
calling me to write my poems of strife.
A forgotten language of elves and dwarfs
hidden in the crags of rocky cliffs on high,
murmuring songs of sorrow nestled in the willow,
where hidden spiders lay tangled in a web of tales.
The oak so old listening to the words, a memory forever
hidden like a troubadour’s song, once remembered in time
crying why the whistling wind to die in poems without a tune.
There inside we’ll find this was no surprise
when strings were broken,unable to strum the songs
of forgotten dreams, when singing them to echo in the cliffs;
the elves and dwarfs their tales to tell of ethereal wisdom of old.
Miniature trees in Chinese pots twisted in turquoise knots, tied tight
to form a perfect branch, signifying a pure marriage of love for one another
bonded together, the future generation of children born to write poems in verse,
singing the words from memory, when hearing the tales told below the wizened oak.