Concerning Books

A little poem I wrote a while ago~

 

Hauntly tranquil, secrets hidden in the boughs. When every cuckoo falls, when ink black blood is spilt, I shall remain.
When in Lai, the lion grazes with the lamb, the rose blooms in ice, I will have caused it.

When stars dim, and the jester weeps, who shall wipe away his tears?
Not the wind, who’s gauzy love causes fairies to stumble.

Or the patchwork angel, who, fallen to Earth, cannot fly. I watch the old tinker mend her wings, and warn her with a smile, not to fall.

If sensible people read this, they’ll laugh and call me a lunatic, I do not mind. I, the author, for that means the moon is my sister.

And when the trees hum a tune, the waters invite me to play, the stars gossip so terribly, and then the mountains and the fairies listen, and convey.

I, the author am hopelessly lost, and I do not think I want to be found.

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