My journey ends
This is the settling of the wanderer
I lay down my weary limbs on a wet bed of moss
I taste the dew, drink some resin, climb the clouds and collect some stars
I cloak my body in leaves of fern and make my mouth the nest of the night snake
I replace my lonesome heart with acorns
The seedling will sprout within my chest
I place two cones of pitch pines in my orbits
I will envisage a new world
I witness my last breath vanish into the cold air of thе first autumn night
A flock of birds ascends into the clouded firmamеnt
A white stag heads for the forgotten glade
The black wolves prepare for the sacred hunt
A druid is born: Mossweaver
Oakenheart
This is the settling of the wanderer
I lay down my weary limbs on a wet bed of moss
I taste the dew, drink some resin, climb the clouds and collect some stars
I cloak my body in leaves of fern and make my mouth the nest of the night snake
I replace my lonesome heart with acorns
The seedling will sprout within my chest
I place two cones of pitch pines in my orbits
I will envisage a new world
I witness my last breath vanish into the cold air of thе first autumn night
A flock of birds ascends into the clouded firmamеnt
A white stag heads for the forgotten glade
The black wolves prepare for the sacred hunt
A druid is born: Mossweaver
Oakenheart
( Old Growth )
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