forest

quietly the trees roar
echos that fill the air,
sounds of peace.
in the mist of lore,
the sacred fire burns,
in the forest.
its birds, singing loudly,
foresee the coming of men.
they wander in its core
creatively inheriting its belongings.
the forest now speaks.
and sings and moves,
as though it had legs.
she is the mother
the sun, its father.
whom casts its seeds
above green leafs
that float, the air, greenish
and its scent too,
but soon it comes to vanish,
for the rain pours in
ambrosia for the forest
that soon will drink.
the rain slowly falls on us
we have cover.
and outside
the fire still burns.