Led through the mist,
By the milk-light of moon,
All that was lost, is revealed.
Our long bygone burdens, mere echoes of the spring,
But where have we come, and where shall we end?
If dreams can't come true, then why not pretend?
How the gentle wind,
Beckons through the leaves,
As autumn colors fall.
(Somewhere lost in the clouded annals of history,
Lies a place that few have seen.
A mysterious place, called The Unknown.
Where long-forgotten stories are revealed to those who travel through the wood.)
