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| | Signature | 'If brute force does not solve the problem,then,you're not using enough.'
Once ago,in the forest woe,
on a little hill,was a lumber mill;
near a ruin,old stones in blocks:
a remain,of man's work on rocks.
What a mess,of such piece of story!
But still remain,an edge of glory.
In the middle of the stones,as ancient bones
was one that standed, a tower not abandoned.
There liv'd a man,or more,in time unknown;
that man was lost,and an old one was left, for the place kept.
Who he was,ne'er shall one know,for in a shadeless night ,vanished:
but most is said,about that night,by whispers in air,or in fog;
such spirit impressed,listened, in hours that never were,
upon the sunburned Earth.
And is told,by voice of noone,that a strange woman,
of Nigh dressed,and by dream covered,
the oldman's stones,she ask'd for.
Was for a lucky case,or some deadly fate,
she reached the tower,and the old door knocked,
waiting alone,on the quiet hill.
For the man open'd,by years weighted,
facing the Faceless,with old dark eyes. |
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