Song of the Shire

The infant rays of sunlight Filtered through the small panes Of the sleepy Hobbitons, a wake-up Call to the start of the day. Shire-folks smoked weed And Argentine ciphers born of The plumes ripples into thin air Carrying the dream of the day. The wild Brandywine in her stately Updraft, washes away the suffering Of felled logs disturbing her flow And dips them straight into the marshland. The pretty flora of the ancient woodlands Stack their dreams in swirling petals of which Are later reborn in the night. The proud Three Shire Oak stands as A silent guardian to Whitwell wood As woodpeckers prick into the cavernous Echoes of his heart to find out his longing. Remnant of white clouds like ancient Ruins wander lonely over the Hills of Evendim And reflections of a century’s History float In their accord. Shire! Fill me with your rainbow colors And let me dive deep into your essence And let me stay drowned in your dreams Forever.