From grove to glade, from stone to stone, the goat foot children call us home...all naked limb and pretty song, who whisper sweetly, prancing 'bout...with horn of plenty swinging free, nor another stitch...upon.
Their reverence deep for all things wild, their truly holy shrine of countryside...their wilderness sublime, invite the children of the world...though, do no harm. That is the only law.
They know that you are steeped in fear, that you were taught to speak the lie, that everything you do and are, was groomed by devil'd guile to seem...sincere, of that, un-natural sphere, from which you come.
Yet, chance be blessed, that is no cure for that...they offer you the star. There is no lie, at all, in them, nor wiliness, nor devious plan...but they, themselves, as who they are...their shy retreat, from hardened hearts, for lover's have they always been.
Come not to thieve, nor take by force, nor rape the pretty maidens of their kind, but humbl'y bow, step lightly on their ground...that they may welcome you. Or, if your aim...to hunt them down, as always had, is all of you...remember Pan, their god...hunts too.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Fauns at play, from google art
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