A song was made for an obscure scribe
A forgotten mystery, buried deep
Witnessed alone by the walls of stone
About the barren quill and a tablet cold.
A song that poets dared not chant
A memory of solemn anguish and bitter rant
Written in the flesh of anguish and pain
And painted the stain of the snowy form.
This celestial scribe that I know not
Lived among the echoes of the stones
That constantly lulls the utterance of the silence
Into the glorious manifesto of a long lost soul.
For night and day the visage of despair
Burns as thousand candles in midnight clouds
Barges the strongholds of this innocent mind
From the cognizant wells, the aroma arises.
Thus death and misery now befall
The glory of endlless passions froze
Now that I stare upon these torn pieces
Myself is mirrored from this queer ode.
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