| In The Forests Work My Dreamings |
In the forests work my dreamings. The song of the lute- dancing between aged cypresses- the fingerings of a long dead minstrel, mistaken for the wind. A quiet river's flow, washing thousand year old footsteps off of billion year old stones, with a flow that is timeless. The veins of the leaves reach for the sun, cower at the storm, but always pump the blood of earth. And I am all that's left, alone, in my dreamings. |