They say four hundred spirits walked the earth,
To bring the light to every hill and grove;
But who can count the mystery of birth,
Or measure all the treasures in the cove?
For every name we whisper at the shrine,
Ten thousand more are hidden in the trees;
The spirits of the grass, the root, the vine,
The ghosts who ride upon the morning breeze.
The "Four Thousand" are the sparks within the fire,
The unseen hands that tilt the falling rain;
The silent voices in the village choir,
The hidden cures for every secret pain.
A multitude too vast for human tongue,
In every breath, their ancient song is sung.
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