The Mystic Glen

Simply a fantasy style poem.

In the quiet glen of an emerald wood,
in far off pristine lands, 
where flows a pure, crystal clear stream
an old stone structure stands.

Moss grown and deserted,
it stands the test of time,
and it's crumbling weather beaten ruins,
sing out an ancient rhyme.

It has watched the world around it grow,
as the eons slowly passed,
and when, at last, all time has ended
it, alone, stands fast.

A gentle wind blows through the trees,
and almost seems to say,
come and drink from the magic stream,
and rest in the stone ruin's shade.

Fairies dance in the summer's mist,
`round a dew kissed mushroom ring,
and for those who have the ear's to hear,
a forgotten song they sing.

Ever watchful of the world they cry
and call out to mankind,
but man hears not the fairy's song,
and sees with eyes now blind.

Do you hear the fairy's call?
Can you feel the magic once again?
Then join me for the sacred dance,
within the mystic glen.