Eyyy guess who tried to write with the iambic pentameter :D I'm trying to do something a little different with EngSpa week this year with a poem/drabble for each day ^^
The rustling leaves called psithurism.
For Arthur, 'twas the soothing songs of oak.
Unreachable, unspoilt by human hands.
An aubade of the fae inside the woods.
The memories of napping in the glades.
The forest singing him a lullaby.
For Arthur, it was home.
Antonio, meanwhile, think of olives, oranges.
The days of reaping crops, the zing of citrus, chatter simmering in the dusky air. A basket full of olives in one hand,
a forehead of cool sweat that's wiped away,
a smile that stays upon his face.
because he knows tonight, they'll feast like kings.
In his eyes, it was home.
—-
A thousand years or two had passed since then.
As duty calls, their past they've put aside.
However, habits of childhood still stay.
When Arthur sleeps, the window pane is opened,
For listening the evening's serenade.
Antonio dreams of fragrant orange blossoms,
as well as salty olives on his tongue.
For him, there's nothing else that sings so sweet.
For him, not all the gold is worth as much.
For memories reminds us of the simpler times.
The rustling leaves called psithurism.
