The crescent moon glitters impatiently above,

waiting as a tiny sliver of silver.

Its cool gentle light swirls around the wispy clouds

which are hiding in gleaming stars.

And the shadows hide the clouds in a midnight shroud,

and the only thing that shines is the midnight moon.

In that place, in that year,

the forest is filled with newborn cries,

a soft high sound of life and love,

and the wind whispering a lullaby.

The only other sound is a cooing dove,

all celebrating the arrival of spring.

The heat of the air begins to rise

as the branches grow firmer.

The animals in happiness, rest and graze,

and the water of the creek seems to sing.

And the warmth of the world is only from a gaze,

a gaze bursting past the layers of the sky.

In that place, in that year,

the wind seems to shriek out of tune.

The forest, carefully sleeping under,

is forced to fall by thunder.

The age of the forest is taking over.

The moon - white with rage, green with envy,

hammers the forest with knives of the sky.

In the spring, they have thrived.

But things have changed, they're cursing time.

Leaves fall as if they would cry,

from the rash destruction of the moon's demise.

The crescent moon glitters impatiently above,

waiting as a tiny sliver of silver.

Its cool gentle light swirls around the wispy clouds

which are hiding in gleaming stars.

And the shadows hide the clouds in a midnight shroud,

and the only thing that shines is the midnight moon.