the elmwood shuddered, sobbing
under the twisting of roots
and perverting prayers

the sky tore open, bleeding
upon a forest drained
and silent.

a sparrow left its perch, flying
across magic wards and old wounds,
traitors and heroes,
an unrestful woodland,
a little pond in a place of solace,
scruffy Haslac and his wolves

grief is harder
when it comes too soon,
a story ended
without resolution

we are left with
tears of blood

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Miraman, in the year 922 AF.