Image Courtesy of Pixabay

 

Amidst a place where silence reigns,

A tale unfolds in whispered strains,

A realm of splendor, so they say,

But truth, perhaps, may slip away.

The sky above, a painted scheme,

A canvas vast, or so it seems,

Yet in its hues, a subtle jest,

A fiction woven in the west.

The trees, they stand in still repose,

In shades of green, their story goes,

But secrets hidden ‘neath their bark,

A myth, a riddle in the dark.

The river’s flow, a gentle stream,

Its waters gleam, or so they deem,

A liquid ribbon, winding by,

Yet truth’s reflection, one can’t deny.

Creatures here, they claim to dwell,

In this enchanting, mystic spell,

With fur and feather, scale and fin,

A tapestry where truths begin.

To capture this, in words, they try,

Yet falsehoods in their tales may lie,

For nature’s beauty, veiled and shrewd,

Holds truths and lies, both well-imbued.

So, with a hint of truth and lore,

The storytellers weave, and more,

A world obscured, in mystery,

Where lies entwine with truth’s decree.

Antoinette LeRoux © 2023