The forest seemed old and silent,
Gnarled limbs, twisted by the wind.
Trunks, some tall, some slightly bent,
Whispering leaves, do not seem friends.
A sense of evil and impending doom,
Their footsteps muffled by the dust.
Sam, wishing he could have stayed home,
Knowing, in friendship, he must trust.
Oh, whats to fear from a few old trees?
May this journey bring us nothing worse,
Than the willow's song upon the breeze,
Or childhood tales of an ancient curse.