High In the Reinhardswald

there, high in the Reinhardswald mountains, the trees, arms outstretched, swaying, full of lore & ancient songs, there, the lady sleeps. the songs, no longer quivering, in her pale throat, only an arrow, only a breath, only a puddle in the pool of her neck. that soft wind, left to the valley floor, this is the harsh white wind, snow sewn in the seams—yes there in the edge of your night screams. a whisper, thins its way, up the mountains, but does it carry hope, or yet more, despair.

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