Morning plinks on my umbrella.
Drizzly Mists, Elfen Mists...
Protected by the Changling Oak.
Dare I hover under those branches...
Snatched into the trunk for a
Hundred years of rhyme gone
By. As Elves glow dance in
Circles, tenacious glades
No woodsmen cares to touch.
Would not be much, to appear
Once more, a hundred years
From now. No morning pastels,
Poems, ballads, ever will change.
Through the Now of Elves and Oaks.
Blink once in the Mists...you live
True. Blink twice in the Mists...
Farewell to you.
Mists are not what they seem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Spanish moss hanging lazily down catching rain made to light see falling down..