Unseen

There's a chill in the Warm Lands.
It lingers in the Valley,
Smothering hope with the fetid stink of fear;
Clinging to meadow grass, and tree top high,
The Peaks which brought forth life,
Sit dormant now under stagnant skies.
Grey is the day, the night, the in-between.
This land, where Spirit dwells, remains unseen.