♡🍃Of Reclusive Survival🍃♡ When the misty fog,
brushes past the log,
of woods standing tall.
She ties her hair,
Like a mare,
With a band in a bun .
And the wind was wild,
In her tranquil mind,
Which sung a song so sweet.
Like whispers from a saintly town,
A prophet in a silky gown,
She listened recluse and neat.
Her feet clad in withered leaves,
From that which fell of autumnal lease,
She collected them; big and small.
Also twigs and little branches,
Inside the meadow, passing glances,
Collecting them in a basket of cane.
Tonight tis gonna be cold,
Dwelling in a house old,
All burnt for the night, a bonfire.
Sitting round a golden fire,
A little girl and her little brother,
singing songs and hymn