Springtime Fantasy

Dappled sunlight filters through the leaves
A pale silver shadow flits from tree to tree
In the glades where reality disappears from
The land and gentle fantasies are roaming free

Silent, always silent and watching quietly
Tiny dream like a sapling bright and green
Struggling for the sunlight and growth,
Yet feeling on display and made to be seen

There where the verdant forests begin to end
The paths no longer soft but rocky and hard
Little tree that is hidden within and hushed
Curls the long limbs in and stands on guard

However, the clouds are dark and heavy
Their forms obscure the nurturing warm sun
The chill wind of harsh reality brushes against
And the delicate fantasy finds itself, undone


By... Belynia Isithrandil

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Mayan, in the year 352 AF.