The forest is different in the night.
In the moonlight, the forest belongs
to the court of the goblin king.
Listen: strain your ears.
Do you hear the faint strands
of faerie horns blowing far away?
In the goblin market,
kobolds and hobgoblins haggle,
paying with shards of moonlight.
Only the silence of owl's wings,
only the hush of indrawn breath.
The forest dark with dappled shadows.
Sylphs splash in silver puddles,
and between the folds of the crystalline night
dark eyed fauns pause to watch.
You might bargain for your heart's desire,
or barter your heart for a handful of moonbeams.
Or do your mortal eyes see only shadows?
But tonight is the goblin market;
tonight they have diversion enough
and forest folk have no need for mortal men.
The moon is a silver coin
we spend it night by night.