The Lion Behind The Wardrobe

A door opening into dreamtime; grey heather and afternoon tea giving way to
	black trees, solid in the flickering firelight, their dryads slipping
		silent into the bonfire circle:  Kings and queens,
		survivors of too many life-and-death battles, gaily laughing
			as they toast their health;
Star-watching centaurs, with eyes focused on the millenia;
Beavers and badgers; Talking Mice who'll challenge anyone, whether he be
	giant or lion or marshwiggle;
Fauns, eager to be up and tramping down the grass of the Dancing Lawn;
	And sullen dwarves who would shut their eyes to Aslan if he came
		to see them personally, but believe quite earnestly
			in the leg of roast at hand.
A place where grain-speckled gold brushes against a setting sunblue sea
wlecoming the lion-cloaked sailors home, home to feast at Cair Paravel
	celebrating their safe return:  From the East, where the stars go to slumber;
		From Calormene, a desert land, where freedom's bought
			at the cost of iced sherbert;
And from Terebinthia, and all the other countries the red lion flies over
	in rustling, commanding dignity.
And the door swings open again:  One last look at nighttime and Narnia,
	stars shining over the tower of Miraz's castle, lords and ladies all
		patiently treading the great dance
until Aslan comes to banish the age.

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