In the valley of the Whiteleaved Oak,
there lives a maiden of the oldest grove.
They tell of tales from whence she sat and spoke, and silence, sang, the songs of lives, beyond the whispered smoke.
The story goes, and there are those, that live with peace within, and see the world with thoughtful eyes, enlightened; without sin.
Below the tree’s olde beauty, rose, a village of these souls, that lived a thousand years, they tell, of whom the maiden knows.
Until the day that came, they say, the shadow of its foes; the Whiteleaved Oak, can only sow the love the village knows.
The fear that fell upon the village, swept through it in spells, and what the people feared, was in the root of what they felt.
The danger that had come their way, was written in their deeds, and born of selfish thoughts that sowed, the greed within in its seeds.
The son of maiden’s birthing, was to brighten
light, of those, who’d whispered softly of the
peace, the Whiteleaved Oak would sow.
The shadow grew, in those, the few, the seeded greed had grown, and then the fear of loss, it seems, then flowed between these souls.
For those, the few, that feared the loss, and knew of shadow’s reach, the fear then grew, to those they knew, and so on, did they preach.
In days beyond the shadow’s dawn, the maiden’s son did teach, upon their ears his teachings fell, and shadow did beseech.
The story goes, and there are those, that fell within this breech, and from this day, the son’s array, continues to then teach.
They tells of tales from whence she'd sit below the Whiteleaved Oak, and sing the silent songs of lives, beyond the whispered smoke.
And there, in the valley of the oldest grove, lives the maiden of the Whiteleaved Oak.
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