A poem:The leaves are withering,They look pale and brown,They lie lifeless figures,Scattered, at sundown.Their branches quietly mournThe loss of their children,Desolate pieces of woodOld and abandoned.The trees seem quite strange,By day, they appear listless,But come dusk, become frightened,Fearing the darkness.The forests may seem green,For in silence, they lose life,Their littered paths bespeakThe feared advance of …
The Forgers of Fantasy 