Out From Walls and Into Woodlands, Come
For it is not a shame that folk might dress in fancy, but that world should be stooped and prostate with a boot at its head and a sword at its womb for trifles, while the best things in life are bled, and left to rot in the wastelands. Indeed, the beloved ocean-foam's flower-clad daughter delights in well-crafted ornamentation, and gifts were meant to be sent across tribes, but that all should bow down before the monuments of commerce is an abomination. Ruins and outlying lands judge the precincts of the towns, and ask, are you eternal, or shall ye too crumble and fall? Asking, which has greater worth, that which falls, or that which twists and turns throughout?
So the Spirit of the Wilderness cries out and judges the cities, calling the city into judgement, invokes memories from the tombs beneath the pavement, ancestral voices paved over, long roaming and bounding spirits' descendants led in chains to serve the great temples of commerce. For the land beneath the pavement wills a deeper memory, and earth underneath foundations longs to return to weeded, flowered lushness. They say Lord of Nymph's Widely-Wanted Sister of Wildflowers cries out for songs of love, spells of night and wild wight to push back the reign of stealer-of-sense and caster-of-trance upon gold-entranced masses, back to simple things like flesh and soil's delight which steals from no one, but bounty brings from bosoms full of love. So shall curses come to naught if love shall cleave to heart, for Love's Puma-Pulled Beauty of Grace and Wildness evening sings songs of liberation, out from walls and into woodlands, come.