Three hundred years before
And still the forest heals its wounds,
From man-made, blazing fire
Sending elders to their tombs.

Atop the branches, Sentries
Sound the battle raging horns,
As humans storm through branches,
Weaving in-between the thorns.

Once hunters of the forest,
Now protectors of the town,
Put spear-play into practice
And defend the one of crown.

The skills of elven trackers
Turning them to master spies,
To fight within the ruin
That unfolds before their eyes.

Upon the shore, the warships
Land and set free their machines,
Great monsters of destruction
Driven by those human fiends.

A victory seemed imminent
But little did they know,
Retreat they would from elven lands
Before the month of snow.

Jonathon Best 2009©