The earth is covered by the moon's soft light.
It remembers those times men no longer feel,
a breeze from the wings of a dragon's flight,
the communion with sprites now thought unreal.
It searches for traces of the magic
that's faded away o'er eons of time.
It views the yawning absence as tragic
as though mankind has committed a crime.
The power of disbelief has won out;
the truth has been buried in history's past.
Pixies and fairies and sprites are in doubt;
childhood stories and tales lowered in caste.
Perhaps they are hiding, waiting out there
to hear "I believe," their salvation's prayer.
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