Alas! My winged father smiles, standing in his lair,
The Olde Wyrm of Elder Days doth his faith prepare:
He looketh once more to the heaven, seeking the light
Hearing the whispers of his own inner voice in delight.
All dreams come to end, myth doth not taste as afore.
Why were those songs made in the sweetness of yore,
If they're sent now into the abyss of a darkened faith?
Alas! The stars are turning dim in his melancholic sore,
For the Olde Wyrm of Elder Days hath now closed the Door
Of the City and to sleep on his wounded side he doth lean
Night hath come on these lands but in dream yet unseen.
Nevermore shall he fly over the twisted roads of Faery
'Cause his old dreams have set him back from humility
And all his words lead to the same failure in Faith.
Under a mournful moon, flowers and trees lost in silence,
At last he considers his allegiance or old acquaintance,
Opens wide eyes on the real world herein and its lure
Of his ruin doth his childish soul take the measure.
For what else was he than a mere child without blame?
Adieu! Beloved legends, sole to rembember their shame,
The time has ever passed to set the world in flame.
He sighs, not longer waiting for a face with no name.