The beauty of the Asmilin hills 

The wise old minstrel now hummed this ancient lore,
on the beauty of Asmilin's rolling hills and lakeshore.
And songs on that realm were sung in the time before
and but the wise old minstrel, now sung it once more.

The white rolling hill of Asmilin stretched out wide,
embracing a pristine sparkling lakeshore at its heart.
Here, the magical creatures raced fiercely in their glide,
scaring the grey sky, a soft and graceful empty assart;

Here the snow glistened, the frozen lake gleamed bright,
 and the leafless trees danced to the trumpet of the gale,
Painting and poems were written for glories of this sight,
yet lost is most, and we know just this part of the tale.

They say the old wise ravens held their congress here;
Like specks of black margarites lined on the winter trees
There they perched and forged the future, far and near,
and they let their memories flow in the winter's breeze.

The good noble phoenixes with their fiery wings soared up,
casting kindled light beacons on the snow-filled glade.
They burned golden on the livid sky, like fire's buttercup,
they fluttered brilliantly like a blazing fire, as they played.

The emerald larks, the bards of Asmilin, they softly sang,
their magic heaved the snow so very tenderly, into a dance
and, in the crispy placidity, their luscious melody rang
through the leafless woodland lancing the snowy expanse.