In the forest do not talk

In the forest do not talk

The ancient trees, the nascent leaves

The fallen fruit, the crackling twig

The droning bee, the unseen wasp

The sounds they make, the song they sing

The sounds they make, the song they sing

They call to you their poor lost child

They call you home, O poor lost child

They sing of times when you were home

When gold was caught on the tip of leaves

And silver wrought of fresh moonlight

When time was a river endless anew

that you could dip and wade at will

When work was song made at ease

When song was sung sans word sans thought

The sounds they make the song they sing

They call to you their lost child

They call you home, O poor lost child

They sing of times when you were home

Pay heed to them and go home, go home

Go home my soul, go home, go home

But first,

In the forest do not talk.

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