The last pages are turning.

It is nearly over.

I stood, alone, in the shadows of the tree,

Towering, tall, branches curling over me,

And I wonder, if it didn't, where I would be,

But it is useless. I can't go, I can't try to flee

So I stand, alone, under the tree,

The hooded figure, standing in front of me,

A dark and withered man, but holding a sliver of beauty,

A single flower, sliver and gold, stretched out towards me,

And then looked up, saying, "It wants to be free,

"Take it, for the world it needs to see,

"And if there is nothing, come back to me,

"I will be waiting, under this tree."

So I took it, showed it the mountains and the sea,

The streams and the rivers, flowing free,

Free, wild, what I craved to be,

I had taken and shown to the wild beauty,

The hooded figure listened to me calling plea,

And I had set off, noon else but me,

Myself, away, wild and free.