At the edge of the shadowed woods, where mists descend,
A figure flickers, they call it Sprunki, my friend.
Not sprite nor beast, its being's a veiled disguise,
A form translucent, where light and shadow rise.
Its footfalls are light, disturbing not the fallen leaves,
It wanders in the night, a traveler that the dream weaves,
Silver motes orbit, like stardust scattered and strewn,
Sprunki, a secret, the universe's quiet tune.
It hunts not for prey, nor seeks to run away,
It exists just to exist, pure and without sway,
Under the gaze of ancient trees, it softly glides,
Like a breeze, like a dewdrop, in an instant it hides.
Some say Sprunki is the whisper of souls lost in the night,
Others, a whimsical creation, nature's gentle light,
The truth, perhaps, forever sleeps in time's abyss,
The mystery of Sprunki, no one can truly kiss.
But when the night deepens, and stars ignite the sky,
Perhaps you'll catch a glimpse, as it dances, soaring high,
Sprunki, a moment, a feeling, a fleeting phase,
A puzzle, forever shrouded in mysterious haze.
Its existence proves the beauty of the world's allure,
In the unexplained wonders, forevermore to endure,
Sprunki, a symbol, a poetic, soft refrain,
In endless nights, a whisper, echoing again.
sprunki
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