am 07.08.2005 um 16:39:28 Uhr

The Restless

In haze was raised our inner sense
since all these years had passed.
All turmoils´ fancies grew but dense,
and passed away at last.
Yet mourning scored the somber sky,
and I may since admire
that all mankind was creeping nigh
this slowly dying fire.

This land did then but glance and leer,
and clinged to its repose;
in wintry cloaks, no less sincere,
and night-veiled to its toes.
I leant upon a hawthorn stalk
when marvel grew abound.
And Winter´s tykes seemed but to talk
in stormy seas of sound.

The deadwood smirked upon our rove
as if we were its prey.
It knew, hereon this misty grove
may sleep our dying day.
At once, the branches seemed to leap
while snaking to and fro.
We fear, the dead nigh may not sleep
and bear their seed to sow.

And I do sense a greater plot
in each we leave behind.
I see, their corpses never rot,
to dream away our kind.
I leant upon this hawthorn stalk,
and felt its burning sound.
I know, the dead, they may not walk,
yet they are still around.

by cascardian

Name:	Level:	Rang:
Bübchen	11	Sklave
Griffith	9	Hoher Rat
cAndA	6	Sephariel´s linke Hand
Sephariel	4	Clan Oberhaupt