When I shall whisper my sad song,
My melancholy, to the breeze,
I know for sure they will reach home;
For whispers know where whispers go
Inside shadows & foggy smoke -
Where dreams lie awake
And Ashen embers turn to snow.
There resides the Great Hollow
Whence the River Aisling flows,
Her waters like the Tuscan Sun,
Whereof storytellers drink
To quench the thirst for visions
And allusions of the Arcane.
Oh, how I wish to return there
To the Realm Eternally Surreal.
Prometheus' part, 'twas mine here,
The Rule Breaker with a Foresight,
Who stole the Elixir of Tales
And poured it onto mortals.
The council raged and stormed
Like the summertime hurricanes,
Eyes swearing a fate worse than Death.
But the River, she was glad some,
And my heart gladdened with cheers,
For the River held the true reins,
And my act had been approved;
Just banishment I had to face.
Some days, I hate circumstances
And utterly despise humans,
For squandering my gift.
But now and then, the terrain seems
A bit like the home I'd to leave,
Storytellers, all flourishing.
So, I continue to wander
Staying where it reminds of home.
