'Twas balmy weather on the fool's gold path, the track that fashioned foes of friends. Though storms upon it lost their identity, how they did rage on all the same. "Twas a tyranny of the heart, dear lassie, that way that was no way at all. "Twas an extinguishing of the soul's hearth, dear laddie, and upon it none can rekindle the flame. Harken to this warning. Let it not meet a single sole. Upon it darkness is ever clothed in white, fur trimmed, eyes bright - demons as angels will come in twisted song. Day to night. Right to wrong. Dark to pseudo light. So traveller beware. Beware! For the bewitching hour hath begun!
It was a bonny path that chattered day and night, the free leaves upon it and their twig-attached brethren in seasonal conversation.
The path before our feet felt as an invitation to our soles, that it wanted us to travel it and find out what lay upon it.
The path is a silk scarf over green hills; it undulates with the earth, leading into the horizon of land meeting sky. It could have been woven for thousands of years, perhaps in a place where time is truly forever, a place of eternal serenity. Each footfall is cushioned from below and the next encouraged, for this is a path given to the walker, to the one who loves adventure and a chance to follow the rising sun.
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