Summoning

Summoning - Land Of The Dead
Where forest stream went through the wood
And silent all the stens there stood
Of tall trees, moveless, hanging dark
With mottled shadows on on their bark
As faint as deepest sleeper's breath
An echo came as cold as death
Long are the paths, of shadow made
Where no foot's print is ever laid
No moon is there, no voice, no sound
Of beating heart; a sigh profound