The WildBeneath the tangled vines and leavesMore Like This
Where spiders weave their silky ropes.
The trees grow close, they're touching sleeves.
Their sweeping arms dark rocky slopes.
The river cries and tears the night
'Tween cries of nightingale and lark.
And from afar, twixt trees, a light.
In the distance shines a tiny spark
Where travellers warm their sodden cloaks.
They eat chunks of aged and stale bread
And rest their weary backs on oaks.
Lucky to be warm and fed.
Beneath waxing moons the forest breathes.
Birds build nests and beasts sire young.
The wind rolls by and startles leaves.
'Tis the forests song being sung.
A song of ages, life, and woe.
It tells of summers, long, and snow.
Of autumns red and winters white.
A tale of every sound and site.
Of every creature there to tread.
Be they living, be they dead.
Of every man and every child
Who dared to live and touch the wild.