Silently plowing through the snow,
Weaving a way through countless trees,
Is a man who followed the beckoning voices,
Of primal instinct.
They sing to him,
A chorus of divinity,
The Mother and her daughters,
Calling in the wind.
Winter has come,
To the Old Forest,
Spirits slumber in hibernation,
Save the man who always wanders.
Restlessly he roams,
Skies above are gray with snow,
He is a winter-child, tranquil, serene.
Serenity, crystalline Forest,
Silence intertwined with whispering souls,
A song, sung by children of the Old Forest.
A breath of life.
A breath of peace.