The Starry Breath of Moss

The moss, green mantle upon the rock,
an ancient soul, slow in its breathing,
time is steeped within every drop,
beneath the stars, secretly dreaming.
It sees not the sky, covered by the wood,
but feels the echo of distant stars.
In every thread a hidden desire,
that rises mute beyond all confines.
And so it dreams of magical lights,
distant worlds, splendid dwellings,
among roots and moist systems,
a green dream that will never die.