Insistence,ForHowTheWindMoans

For she slowly gazed into the mist. For through the mist remained a figure. Dismembered and broken... how it spoke to me. A weave of tales, more greater than the last... spoken swiftly... from an unknown tongue. As through the night she did speak to me... cascaded softly, over a blanket of wool. Yet then, to an answer of the clouds, daylight crept, a dull shine amongst the wood. But forevermore she remained... kept patron by the mist... as silven colored leaves fraudfully kept, such an ivory testament. For though night had ended... a new day then, had begun... with eyes pointed toward a vanishing sky.