There are tales of the Old Days
Of a time of trial and glory
So we gather around the fire as
The Old Ones tell their story
Wildren Wood may be dying.
For the last few weeks it seems
We, it's children, are haunted by
Shrieks and moans and screams.
The invaders have returned
Ringing it with machines of awe
Slowly reducing its perimeter
Each day by a little bit more.
The trees have massed together
Providing a defensive screen
Until it seems a standoff
Between them and each machine.
This time there is no contact
Just a steady slow retreat
This time the Ancient Wood
Seemed to face a final defeat.
An eerie silence one morning
And every tree was gone,
Just a deep black pit remained,
Ancient Wildren had moved on.
We, it's children awoke to
A strangely peaceful scene,
No sign or indication that
Any confrontation had been.
The sun seems a little dimmer
Emitting a different light,
The stars seem different
The sky darker at night.
Elders say our Ancient Wood
Had moved to a different place
Taking us its faithful children
Through time and maybe space.
And the Elders tell the tale
Of that eventful night
When under dark's cover
Our home took a saving flight.
We live and hunt in the shadow
Of the wood called Ancient Wildren
It is our shield and defender
And we are it's grateful children
