The Village Where Mist Meets the River
I think I remember...
A place like this long ago,
Or perhaps, a place just born,
Where the mist meets the river,
There is a tiny village
Blanketed in the safety of a sacred cloud
On an island of quiet,
Minds rest in the kiss of her rain
The essence of her veil
Huddles over the den-dwellers
The leaves, weaving themselves with the fog,
Twinkle in the dawn
And settle in the safety of her silver threads
Traces of a footstep on the earth,
Feeling its moist and papery debris,
A stray soul from time to time finds themselves
Before the sun is to rise
At the entrance to it’s pass
The distant call of the village inhabitants
Beckoning the most placid of mind
And the strongest of will
Shall they walk the pass
With strong heart,
They too can feel the kiss of her rain
Walk in the soil of life
And hear the sweet strum of dew in the forest
However, be weary the soul
That cannot walk without fear
Finding themselves entranced
By the mirror of their wildest delusions
And murkiest dread
They awaken at moonrise,
Pass and mist afar off the shore
Unharmed, however...
...forever greatly changed.