Down yonder in the woods where the wildflowers grow, and the west wind blows,
there's a secret gate.

The key to open it is a curious mind, a certain kind, that's quite difficult to find,
easier lost than broken dreams.

But one summer when the sky was true blue, a young girl passed through,
she entered the gate.

She was able to pass on her virtue of believing, seeing bright blossoms, winged-faeries, deer that weren't fleeing,
she was at home;heaven.

The faerie children braided a floral crown, knitted a gown, dubbed her princess of their town,
She was happy.

And every summer, for many summers, she returned, she learned, that faeries and peace exist despite what she'd heard,
especially in this place.

But one summer, she didn't come back to this place; her grace or her faeries or her white gown of lace,
that summer the faeries cried.

They wept as their hearts would ache, then break, memories being a wooden stake,
the magic died.

The magic died along with the girl's belief; grief overwhelmed the faeries as a childhood fell asleep,
never to awaken again.

So slowly the faeries flew away, on a warm windy day and the deer fled as the roses faded away,
so did the sun.

But one day the young girl, older now, returned to the gate, it was too late, the faeries and flowers didn't wait,
the girl was no longer happy.

Once where the wildflowers grew and a west wind blew, a gate opened and a girl passed through,
now it's closed.

Because just like summer, a childhood ceases with sighs like sweet breezes, we wish it would pause, but life never freezes,
it melts away.

But one summer day, not too far away, another young girl will come and play,
the faeries will return.

The magic dust is made from children's sighs, happy eyes, the essence of youth without goodbyes,
only fairytales.

But even in stories and where endless flowers grow and where a gate lays hidden 'til the west wind blows,
there's an end.