There is a whispering within the trees,
A shaking rustling voice through the leaves, it is unknown and familiar, sweet and peculiar.
As vines curl along, gently caressing the landscape, trailing up the trunks and wrapping around roots, the voice is still there, still very clear in the still air.
Flowers that spring forth from the ground, adding their own triumphant sound, the sway with the breeze and stretch towards the sun, they sing with the voice as does all in this forest.
The little animals that run a long the ground, the birds nested in the trees, the water or the spring that bubbles and dances along. They all are one voice, one song, and they all sing to one conductor, in a very put together orchestra.
The voice is nothing but life, and it runs through the world as we know.
YOU ARE READING
Moving the Mountains
PoetryPoetry used to bring down countries and inspire artists and break and win over hearts. This poetry is meant for the same fate, if only one truly decides to read it.
