In a forest old, where the silence grows,
And the wind walks soft where no one goes,
There lives a man with silver eyes,
Who sees the truth, not just the skies.
He sits by fire, beneath the moon,
And hums an ancient, quiet tune.
He tells of times when hearts were wise,
Before the world learned to disguise.
His stories twist like roots below,
They move so slow, yet always grow.
He speaks of kings, and love, and fall—
But every tale reveals it all.
The youth may jeer, they laugh, they run,
Too fast to see what he has done.
But those who sit, and those who stay,
Will leave with gold they can’t repay.
Michael Forty