There is not so much left on this earth there is long before the moon turns cold come one last foray into the forest the path is marked by bluebells. Go and traipse the grass with open sandals and see your brown hair an earthy tone we must forge forward my little lady now that it is quicker than to return. I can see a clearing in the far distance and though you probably can’t see it yet the bluebells will lead you like a mentor the forest is not to dwell in past then.