Pine Road

A still night along the quiet road Forest to left and right. The sweet smell of pine growing old, Swaying back and forth, silently waving Goodbye to the peaceful calm, With the wind a cold that would spite The woods and spring a winter song. Long did the prophets tell of growing dark, A people seeking to be wise, But neither now nor later pierce the guise Shrouding the land to which they embark. Sweet is the smell of the old pine, Which lies center the forest of woe. Consumed in the bitter sweet touch Bestowed by the fleeing heart. Stated as fact or rather lack of such, The calm and peace together go. On the road, between two entities part And warring kingdoms take its line.