Lena
and sweetest in the gale is heard
and sore must be the storm
and sore must be the storm
Season changes and intermingling lights, a beauty to behold in eternal splendor amongst the Celestine. Combined efforts of heralds and gods proffered and extended holy, divine, spectral encompasses, and the youth who worked within the domain would always stop, always stare, always smile. To be so blessed was a feeling of immense bliss, and so her steps remained light, airy, ethereal. Lena was not a creature of the Order, but of citizens sculpted and whittled and allowed to dream in this singular haze.
Her hands drifted over the next enclosure, basket in her arms again. “A newcomer?” She whispered, tilting her head, staring into the massive expanse, opening the lock, and wandering into its confines. She could hear something nearby, perhaps another path over, but paid no heed; hand lifting to her brow, shielding all the other ambient light, while she traced over what creature could be here now.
Within a moment, there was a rabbit, nestled, underneath a series of brush and bushes. “Hello there,” she uttered, soft and sweet, approaching slowly, carefully, cautiously. On closer inspection, noting its piebald coloring, she noted it could only be a blink hare; and by its poor running at her appearance, drifting only a few feet away and with a telltale limp, it’d somehow been injured in the process of existence. “We’ll fix you right up,” she promised, then returned her sights to her basket, collecting a few rolls of bandages and treats.
Her hands drifted over the next enclosure, basket in her arms again. “A newcomer?” She whispered, tilting her head, staring into the massive expanse, opening the lock, and wandering into its confines. She could hear something nearby, perhaps another path over, but paid no heed; hand lifting to her brow, shielding all the other ambient light, while she traced over what creature could be here now.
Within a moment, there was a rabbit, nestled, underneath a series of brush and bushes. “Hello there,” she uttered, soft and sweet, approaching slowly, carefully, cautiously. On closer inspection, noting its piebald coloring, she noted it could only be a blink hare; and by its poor running at her appearance, drifting only a few feet away and with a telltale limp, it’d somehow been injured in the process of existence. “We’ll fix you right up,” she promised, then returned her sights to her basket, collecting a few rolls of bandages and treats.
that could abash the little bird
that kept so many warm
that kept so many warm
