Poetry

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In the window of the castle,
There sat an elder sage,
Who played a song of sorrows,
The last one of the page.
He strung the cords of bronze,
And wept till bitter cold,
All day and night he sat alone,
And watched his hands grow old.
In agony he sang the lines,
His tears of iron dripped,
The vanity of ardency
So swiftly had it slipped.
And now in wonder silent,
He looked down to the floor,
And caught a glimpse of ivory,
But there it was no more.
Excitement threw him forward,
Had she come back for him?
Alas the shadows sat again,
His hope did fadeth dim.
For in the window of the castle,
There sat the elder sage,
That played a song of sorrows
Lasting long into the age.

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