Nightfall. Moonrise.
Those who wander lift their eyes
to that aeon-old battle in the skies.
Stars shine o'er the realm of the Fae,
caught between the shadow and day.
Somewhere, a crow cries.

There is a nimbus, a halo of argent light
round the Silver Lady-- half dark, half bright--
her lambent aura defying the night.
In the deep woods, in glades long forgot;
the wild beasts sleep, and gaze not
on the latest skirmish in an unending fight.

In the past, it was not so:
once the forests knew no woe,
once Raven ruled instead of Crow,
once Night was beautiful and dear,
and gentle Evening held no fear.
Thus it was once, long ago.

Who recalls those years of ease,
Or are they lost, like a wandering breeze
whispering in the woodland trees--
neath which the forest peoples war
as they have for an age before--
Swift gone, leaving but memories?