There is a forest

There is a forest. A forest filled with the deepest darkness and mistrust. A place who border on to each soul of man. So heartfelt close. So dangerously close to ones soul. No birds are singing there. No flowers grows and nod indolently on its ground when man passing by. No! This forest has no life. No one who walk it through laugh or smile. Dashed to the ground is every hope and longing. Every step grows tired of abandonment. A clerc of fear sign you in. A clerc of hope sign you out. There is a master of this darkened forest. A shadow. Forgetfulness is not his name. ”Memory” is he called by many. He offer you a table drink to drink from the grunting witch cauldron. You can not refuse. You have to drink it to its bottom. So sad it is. So dark and lonely. No hope is to find in those wanderers heart.
But life itself is hopeful and it whisper silent in your ear: Like a dream now is, who soon will disapear. Walk, walk, walk until you reach the light on the other side of this hurtful place.. Hope is there, waiting. Every moment it listen to hear your step and to dry your tears. Do not stop, just walk

So dark it is, so misty and painfull
I see the sun in the daytime, but i can not smile
I see stars on the vault of heaven each night
but still, the world is so filled with shadows
who treacherously bind me to the forest this hours of distress

This walk is a long long walk
At times I have screamed out my simple desires
Lift of this burden of loneliness on my shoulders, I humbly ask
But there is no one who listen to them who suffer from grief
everything have to come up to the surface of each one who have tasted this drink

The master of this place is so cruel
But we need him, his sensitivity to the grief is great
He do not cry with you when he put you to the test
That hardest one any man can imagine, loss
He is not responsible for your pain. Death is, his brother

Days goes by and come back again
until the wanderer’s sorrow once again fall asleep
But deep in the heart of they who has walked in this forest
a memory always will stay, but it will change
from the darkest night of sadness to a light memory of love

Death has no conscience. Sometimes a deliverer, sometimes a thief
But no one of us can ever accuse him for what he is doing
We have to accept his presence when he comes, and when he leave
whoever he is taking with him


No republication of this written material in any form is permitted without express permission of the author
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