In a wooded glen quite far away,
standing stones a cottage guard.
Sparkles of dew greet this new-born day,
as pilgrims kneel in the yard.
Perfect silence shows their great respect,
for the Master of the house.
Upon their reasons they all reflect,
to heartache they each espouse.
They've traveled from far across the land,
solely to beg for his words.
Meter and rhyme flow at his command,
taking flight on wings of birds.
Each has traveled on the forest road,
braving the ruinous wild.
All have come to the Wordsmith's abode,
for such the Master is styled.
For days sometimes supplicants must wait,
enduring hardships each night.
Some come for love others to cheat fate,
solely to taste of his might.
His words flow on winds of sorcery,
to cause love or lift a curse.
Magick speaks throughout his poetry,
casting spells with every verse.
In turn each one will approach the door,
then knock at it with wonder.
It's opened by the Keeper of Lore,
who's gaze tears them asunder.
She ushers them to the Wordsmith's desk,
'twas hewn from a single stone.
Carvings of wonder and the grotesque,
do adorn his kingly throne.
A mysterious and piercing glance,
is followed by questions few.
With quill in hand he enters a trance,
writing casts each spell anew.
Long days and nights with some he labors,
until his crafting is done.
Each point and nuance he belabors,
until all his magic is spun.
He will let none leave unsatisfied,
such would tarnish his good name.
Unleashed power is a source of pride,
masterful verse is his fame.
Those who seek this sage's vast learning,
must prepare to meet this myth.
By his manner sharply discerning,
all are awed by the Wordsmith.
Now and forever my heart hears ~one voice~.