Among the moaning winds of Earth,
The rolling hills with rolling blades of green,
The roots of stout oaks cling firm,
Deep within the solid earth.
The rain falls lightly, littering life,
And fire falls as if to smite
Anything upon the land.
This my friend is where the old magic began.

The peoples simple simply put,
Smiling strong against the elements,
The futile buffeting of that which would return
All to that primal urge.
The old ways never cease a weakness seek,
Against the rising stones of man,
But, they have a plan.

On Earth runs magic strong and old,
Which nary agéd could unfold,
For long ago has man since turned,
And such it was that human learned,
Of civilization, and organization.

Against the winds, they built the mill,
To harness harshest fury chill,
And make the magic work for them.
The air protests and it portends,
The harshest hardest huff and puff,
But all its fury ‘vials it not,
For stone of man is study stuff,
And easily will not be conquered.

The land it did begin protest,
When man began to dig within.
Her surface changed unnaturally,
And chunks of her body were erected
To guard against the elements.
But earth is patient slow and strong,
Its vengeance not felt for years come.

Water was the fluid one,
Changing as it’s always done,
Granting life to that it touched.
For man it seemed t’was not enough.
And so he forced the water blue,
And granted life at his own whim,
And this perhaps was greatest sin,
For through the element of life,
Did man begin to cause the strife.

Ever chaos fury Fire,
Burning, passion and desire,
Boiling, branding brazen brash,
But even fire did we stash.
It rages ere the iron shackles,
In lanterns, candles does it cackle,
Plotting its revenge.

Thus do the old magics persist,
Ever immortal in their tryst,
Until the man will take for granted,
That power which he underhanded,
Stole from That who lies above,
Watching us, and judging us with love.

And man it seems forever stronger,
Tightening hold forever longer,
Twisting turning molding sculpting.
As gods we play forever longing
Mastery o’er the old magics.

There will come a day my son,
That man’ll regret what he has done.