Long has the autumn wind
reaped the last leaves
from the boughs of the oak-tree
that stands on the hill.
All nature lies still,
the wind ceased its dancing,
the leaves lie unmoving,
frozen in death.
Holding its breath,
Waiting - awaiting:
As if time too had frozen;
Silent the lands lie.
At last, from the sky
a crystal, a flower,
the softest of snowflakes
falls down on the hill.
And yet, it is still.
Only the whisper
Notice: With the Laurelin server shutting down, our website will soon reflect the Meriadoc name. You can still use the usual URL, or visit us at https://meriadocarchives.org/
november
