Pine Gate
Through the pine gate
Woods ashen gray
The fairie sits on the
Throne of thorn and
Bone, antlers rising up
To the bow of an ancient
Oak - the last of its kind.
Wanderers wonder what
Treasures; lies through the
Gate, but never make it
Alive to tell tall tales of
Ruler faire and Daur
Entombed in the dying
Grove where no mortal dwells.
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