A single tear from the elms of emptiness
falls to stain the cracked earth and the soil
breathes one final, desperate,
breathe of life.
Tiny budding flowers and colours
of joy and hope explode from the water-bead.
Undying, undimming, before shattering to dust.
These woods have no memory of the touch of sun,
or the smell of dew, and all I can hear
through the deafening
silence are the moaning trees.
It was Morrow who cursed this place.
Now, cheerless and stagnant,
it screams in the night so we hearken
the cries from the heart of the wood.
I linger on in doubt, darkness
comes early down here.
Wishing upon ages, these flowers
will someday bloom.
I'd wait here forever just
to see these flowers bloom.
They never bloom.
