posted on March 20, 2007 at 8:05 pm

the countryside
the black lakes
the mute farmers toiling in the fields
small graveyards and white churches
cuckoos calling in the dusk
oh where does that little path lead ?
oh where can we be ?
in the forest
wandering again in this forest
on this little path
the air goes past so soothingly
as we glide down the track
under a starry sky
and the crescent moon in cloudy milkiness
creatures stir but we see nothing
the leaves gently shudder
take my hand
oh take my hand
because i am lost here
a thousand tiny sounds in the night
scratching rustling squeaking
mighty trees and baby mice
gnomes who live amongst the roots of the oak
moss and white stones
tangled and cool
the darkening path
the deepening shadows
i am no stranger but
i look and youre gone
alone bitterly alone
i keep hoping to wake up
i stumble upon a little house in a clearing
a very old and frail lady comes out
she smiles at me sadly
come in my son
ive made you some lovely nettle soup

25 Responses to “nettle soup”

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