A poem
They roam the woods, these wild ones,
children of the forest,
raised by the trees and the beasts.
Feral footsteps, tender and fierce,
treading the mossy paths
that wind through the ancient groves.
In their eyes, the glint of the hunter,
the cunning of the wolf,
the wariness of the prey.
They know no home but the verdant embrace
of the tangled thickets, the towering pines.
no family but the pack, the herd, the pride.
Bound not by blood, but by a deeper kinship -
the primal ties that link them to this savage land,
to the untamed, untamed, untamed.
Oh, how I long to join them, to run free
through the dappled shadows,
to feel the earth beneath my feet,
the wind in my hair.
To shed the trappings of civilization,
to cast off the shackles of human society
and become one with the wild.
For I, too, feel the call of the feral heart,
the longing to return to the raw,
unvarnished beauty of nature.
To know a freedom so pure, so unfettered,
that it defies the constraints of the modern world.
Alas, I am tethered here, bound by duties and rules,
longing for a life I can only dream of.
While they, the forest children,
roam unburdened, untamed.
I watch them from afar,
this glimpse of what I can never be,
a vision of wild grace,
savage splendour,
that haunts my every waking hour.
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