The city is old trees in mist, black trunks shirked in awe of time’s hard bite. Man built this city from a dream he had of the forest he once knew in which god the winter mist blew into all shapes he knew. But man dreamt poor, the dream a black pool in a bowl of roots. This city, he dreamt, knew not earth, only toil. It knew not wood, only fire. It knew not green, only blood that spilt and nourished none.