Mourning Mist March

In a land of misty vales far to the north

where trickles of water dripped from cool, jagged rocks

down onto lazy moss to the song of morning sparrows,

there was a time when the moon would shine off dark rivers,

and thick trees reached high their lofty leaves with wild abandon.

Hills were long and rolled with wild ponies,

sunlight crept into the world in translucent streams

creating a mosaic of color upon the forest floor.

To the west lay the undefiled waters of eternity;

this was protection and this was life.

It was the only boundary.

Though it rained often the rocky crests spoke loudly-

They spoke of harsh love and stubborn pride.

Warriors of untamable spirits stalking about the land of mystics:

The mind of the wolf and the body of the bear.

All life told a story.

All stories were alive.

From deep within the still valley

The sun rose.

Swirling mists were chased away as a fire’s smoke is waved aside.

With each great swirl the mist became thinner and thinner,

A scene was slowly revealed lessening the blow:

sacred oak and precious alder murdered.

It was an end…

And they sparkled of iron and gold and of bloody red.

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