3 views
Naive soul
Dreaming down this forest,
At dusk in quiet mumble,
White light trees might need,
But soon, the dark will stumble.
Towards the oak tree,
An owl throws its gaze,
And draws a circular blaze,
Trying to set specters...
At dusk in quiet mumble,
White light trees might need,
But soon, the dark will stumble.
Towards the oak tree,
An owl throws its gaze,
And draws a circular blaze,
Trying to set specters...
