Where to begin?

The bottles are empty now; glass of green and blue, clear and red, that once contained potions and lotions for use on the living and the dead.

The books have all gone from the shelves on which they once did lived, noted by the dust now disturbed and the emptyness of the bookcases that cannot be hid.

The cottage is empty, silent and dark as a grave, no one comes near it now, no one is ever brave.

The ashes are still there in its garden overgrown, wild and set free, the trace of the fire a dark mark a black scar for all those passing to look upon and see.

The gate is shut, the fence and hedgerow around it still firm and intact, run along people, pass quickly by and do not ever look back.

A song of love, loss and longing seems to hang light upon the air, if only they could hear it, if only they would have a care.

Elven song possibly? The language unclear, the voice that is singing so young, so bright without worry or fear.

The cottage remains empty, it’s fire no longer burns in its grate, so passes all wisdom, so passes all wise craft when all things slip into fear and cowardly hate.

A horseshoe still hangs though above the front door, there is hope yet for the world, wisdom may still yet endure. 

The trees stir in a breeze and there is a sound ….

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