The trees remember what we forgot.

Roots tangled deep in ancient thought.

A hush beneath the twilight rain,

Where myths once walked, now ashes reign.

They said the mist here never lifted.

That you could lose yourself, and find something older:

A name. A dream. A voice not quite your own.

But fire speaks a different tongue now.

It eats the silence.

And the legends don’t scream when they die.

The moss has turned to smoke and coal.

No knights remain. No sacred role.

The stream has cracked. The sky is torn.

And all that's green forgets to mourn.

I walked through the bones of the forest,

Past the stone where Merlin slept.

Nothing spoke but wind and ash.

No magic left,

Just regret.

Brocéliande, where did you go?

Under the flames. Under the snow.

We lost the tales. We lost the spark.

And now the stars don’t talk in the dark.

The leaves once danced with golden light.

Now shadows stretch through endless night.

No fairy hands. No whispered spell.

Just remnants in a burned-out shell.

We built towers out of wonder once.

Drew swords from stone.

Sang to the moon with eyes wide open.

But we forgot how to listen,

And the earth, tired of warnings,

Caught fire.

Brocéliande, where did you go?

Under the flames. Under the snow.

We lost the tales. We lost the spark.

And now the stars don’t talk in the dark.

Let the rain fall where the fire fed.

Maybe the soil still remembers.

Let the silence mend what’s dead.

Maybe myths are seeds, not ghosts.

Let the green return again,

Maybe the dream just sleeps… not lost.

If you listen close, beneath the trees,

A heartbeat lingers on the breeze.

A name. A spark. A sleeping land…

Still waiting in — Brocéliande.

Where my dreams burn.

Where my dreams — burn.