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…