The poet speaks in riddles fair
to cast a spell and bind the heart
With ink and breath, a whispered prayer
to smuggle light into the dark
The tales of myth, of legends past
a dip into our ancient ache
The horns of elfland heard at last
and from our slumber now awake
What waste, they say, of precious time
to linger long on fabled prose
But we have come from the divine
and stories are His chosen mode
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