she lies in green moss and writes her little book.
Years of remembering cause her brain to stir.
Many happy memories keep coming back to her.
When she was younger she had often seen
the colors of Germany, her homeland so green.
Now she writes of all those wondrous sights
sometimes long into the moonless nights.
There were tales of great kings and queens.
Endless stories of what the word courage means.
Magic told and retold by one and then another.
Myths of trolls and fairies passed down to each other.
The Black forest still is such a mystic place.
A restive spot where a person could always erase
who they were and you could forever believe.
Now that she was here, she would never leave.
So there beneath those ancient white oak trees
she began to scribe her distant, haunted memories.
Each tale she had been told as a young child
could and would make her imagination go wild.