Willingly time is not ending, 
Separated are the hallow gaps of evergreen trees, 
A thin line of mutual grace, 
at the face of an abandoned cliff. 
Stands the breath of a lone wolf, calling to the premature night sky, 
there is no crescent moon ahead, 
only carved fingerprints of mysterious hands still stuck on fallen groves. 
Mystified are the eyes 
of hidden creatures that lurk throughout. 
Can there be a counted minute 
upon the last gust of wind? Or is faith having the warm touch 
of a dozen molded hearts? 
Maybe the sudden change in 
the perpetual land is enough, 
enough to close the shattered walls, 
enough to lock the iron gilded gate. 
As the cold air, frigid on its path, 
freezes the blades of mildew grass, 
Yet the sound of a drop of water 
can be heard in tranquility. 
Only to be resonated by the rushing winds 
emerging from the Autumn sky. 
The sun in a newfound solace, 
it's rays radiant and elongated 
throughout the calm whispers of the forest.