Ce n’est

.

Another drought in the old well,

Rivers have gone asleep elsewhere,

A tired voice mutters a curse

Wherein all magic must be lost,

The guardian’s heart shall lurch and swell

And his parched tongue stifle a swear;

Ripples echo into the verse

And so the price is worth the cost.

There lies a box of Pandora

In which is lost all that is won,

Still, chains may yet create sweet tunes.

There tick the clocks of all aura,

Time is alpha – master of none,

Even when rise twin silver moons.

.


I… Uh… Yeah…

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