Words to be spoken,
Or shall they not,
To write be it,
And thus do,
The presence of flames,
Deathly as it is,
Engulf the voice,
Of a lone poet.
To be muet,
Or not be muet,
That's a question.
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.