The dwellers of the forests moan,
I hear them in my dreams.
They struggle to retake their home
as on the Whistler screams.

Something dark has set upon
the land that I adore.
Remembering an age bygone,
the woods are safe no more.

What was an untouched sacred place
has twisted in its throes.
Its magic ebbs without a trace,
with death, the Whistler grows.

An open heart may come across
their agonising pleas.
To feel in kind the pain of loss;
the cry that haunts the trees.

This realm, it was not meant to see
the nature of our sins.
If only we had left it be,
now something new begins.

The monster of humanity
condemns the fate of Earth.
Rejoicing to insanity;
reduced to simple worth.

The Whistler bellows louder still,
it’s begging them to care.
But dead of soul, they never will,
remaining unaware.

The greed that lies within such men,
for hubris now we pay.
The song will not be heard again,
just silence of the Fae.

– J.S.Worth