[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]
A strange quietude now invades me,
walking beneath these sleeping skies;
a silver tangled mist pervades me,
confusing old and wearied eyes.
Shadows mingle and night conceives
dreams and whispers, skin and bones,
entwining boughs of withered leaves,
a world built of such brittle stones.
Through pine-nettles, wind is seething;
beyond the mist, the moon is bright.
I wander farther, brooding, breathing,
bruised by shadows through the night.
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