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No fantasy
this mossy forest floor,
the decay, the spoor;
the symmetry an artistry
that’s cushion for the sole.

The nightingale
or lowly sparrow, no golden bird
on golden bough.  This song
is real – a trill
that’s born of being.

No drunken merriment
pollutes the air.  No shining
armor here.  All highs
and lows
are measured by the trees.

The breeze a voice
that comforts weary travelers,
The spirits here are friendly,
complex without complexity.
No artifice in this eternity.