Happiness lies in the whispering wind, just beyond the charred trees.
Crossing a path consumed by fire, nature’s vengeful greed,
how terrifyingly fragile we must be.
The forest’s voice cries out in the night
as the charred flesh of the branches peels away.
The trees swaying in the darkness, moaning in fright,
we embrace their fear and begin to pray.
Mountain rain sizzles against the burning flame
as plumes of smoke rise to the sky, marking their claim.
The scarred mountain bleeds, its wounds deep
but the mountain people love it no less.
Instead of turning away from the marked face,
they turn to fill its need.
Banding together against the fiery wind, words of prayer rise to the skies
chanting a healing song as the fire dies.
The people of the mountains know well nature’s wrath
but they also know how to clear their once well beaten path.
People who save, people who care,
with their quiet words, these are the people who dwell there.
The fire’s ring leaves homes untouched but people protected,
the mountain claiming its own, creating its own circle of magic.
For those standing outside, it appears that
happiness lies in the whispering wind, just beyond the charred trees.