He walked among the fallen gods of earth.
Blackened and smoking still. His friends.
The great oaks stood round in a circle
for a thousand years talking in a language
few humans understood, left unheeded;
and now the Romans had burned them,
torched them, razed them to the ground;
it was almost too much to touch or bare,
the elder clans of song now gone beyond.
On the outer edge the Clans stood encircled
in silence as the Elder Druid walked the circuit,
studying what remained of time’s gods.
No more the voice that came in the leaves.
No more the fragrance of the sacred flowers.
No more the speech of wisdom’s love and fire.
The Sacred Groves are no more, no more:
and we the living are now dead with them,
blackened by the night in a broken world
of the mistborn tribes who have all fallen.
This, this alone, was our last grove,
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