Long ago, when birds still used their beaks to sing, darkness came upon Narnia’s hills.
Cold, misty shadows entered Narnia to stay, looking like forever settling where once songs were the only noises breaking the stillness before the morning sun.
Legions of thick Darkons came hidden within, like tumours of fog, in silence…

That morning the sun uselessly tried to pierce through the unknown, the millions of buds in vain were awaiting for the first song to blossom, as no one sang…
Beaks fearfully opened to taste the dawn, but no dawn touched to bless the tongues…
Bitter hooks made their way down into where only the nectar’s fragrance was once allowed. Some beaks closed in reckless anguish refusing the taste of death, soaring high upon wings of wind through the Darkons; while others stayed, chewing whatever came, whatever blame…

Winter dwells upon the hills of Narnia, down there beneath the misty shadows…
No songs awake the mornings but of butts, as some strange clogs numbed the throats once singing their hearts, leaving their bottoms only to relieve themselves… A new bread of memories multiplied under the greenish, shadowless* branches, called pooetry**…
Mites fed beneath, dreaming to evolve one day over the branches…

Hard is the time of the few under the sun; condemned to fly, with no place for their tired claws, nevertheless gloriously singing out their beaks, their hearts…
No food is given unto them besides their songs, and dim portions of memories past; of trees, and bees, and branches to nest upon…
Few remained, ever fewer…
Only their song survives, carried by the same winds of freedom…



shadowless* - not a mistake; used intentionally
pooetry** - see above