Led through the mist,
By the milk-light of moon,
All that was lost, is revealed.

Our long bygone burdens, mere echoes of the spring,
But where have [bad word]  and where shall we end?
If dreams [bad word] [bad word]  then why not pretend?

Oh how the gentle wind,
Beckons through the leaves,
As autumn colors fall.

Somewhere lost in the clouded annals of history,
Lies a place that few have seen.
mysterious place, called The Unknown.
Where long-forgotten stories are revealed to those who travel through the wood.