Majestic beauty too deep fills the lake.
Depth surround white oh so tranquil mountains,
distant fog whispering,
And the natural wilds keep lurking in the still.
And pastoral plant life grows on top the constant waters,
calm as it might appear, silent as it is,
the slight roar is almost missed.
And shadow casting lone-woods, the ones that never move,
shade green all over the seen land,
and dry sand waves touch the clear-like lake
with no contact beyond the eyes,
so much so, the wind out on the horizon is almost not
heard.
And frozen pale creatures are just looking, smelling,
searching,
then gone, into the earth it seems.
Nothing is coming up, it is all saturated, oh so complete,
so cyclic, the underwater current is almost not felt.
And those which have not drowned in blue,
were drowned by green,
and those who were not drowned by green,
have drowned in white,
and that which has not drowned in white was hidden by
others.
And calm vague air is sinking through
the regularly pending twilight,
and dark virtual brushes seem to be painting all,
and strong old scent is taking over the land,
the foreign storm is almost ignored.
And as the sun is setting above,
revealing dim mix of bright starlight and silver leftovers,
and as the lake is finally resting,
and as the world is leaving all mortal cares,
covered into that deep ice,
there is almost no one to witness the close-by hunter.
And all is well.