Let us journey through the mists of time to an age when books were not in presence of Man but stones and bones were the pages of history and ink was then not known of, yet their hands flew in rhythm to write the hymns and songs of old but with what?
Wrinkled lands under blackened stones,
Withering grass over buried bones;
Darkening stains on parchment few,
Lasting ink in series new.
Diamonds, pearls and laurels gold,
Buried deep in history’s folds,
Singed and renewed in every script,
Then buried again in olden crypts.
Dancing shades in circles too,
Waiting hands on parchment few,
Dulcet tones like misty dew,
Twirling through minds, that are new.
Ages pass and times change,
Fade they must but never die,
Unlike life they always remain
Remain to change the unchanged times.
The Poet: Arkane
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