Disclaimer: Tolkien’s, not mine.
These are not my trees, these twisted pines and ghost-pale birches. Beneath dark oaks the ground chokes; briars entangle unwary feet; fungus threads dread tendrils through the earth - a foulness of decay that does not die.
I miss golden leaves, spread high to catch the sun’s-breath. I miss the smooth coolness of grey boles… and light. I miss the light. Lothlorien dreams of sun-bright oceans in its susurrations; Mirkwood stirs in troubled nightmares of encroaching darkness.
They say here was a mighty fastness of old, but to me this fortress has the aspect of a prison. I’ll not linger willingly.