A cloud passed o'er the rising sun. The air is damp and chill, As sits a minstrel, lost in thought, Upon a lonely hill. Dark windows are his deep blue eyes Into a world unknown. A world within, a world apart, A place he once called home. A land where tiny faeries lived And danced among the trees. Where little people, gruff and strong, Reached merely to his knees. A land of ogres, goblins, trolls, And many creatures foul, Yet also filled with kinder sorts: The eagle, hawk, and owl. The centaur: strong, majestic, bold. The gryphon: agile and swift. The folk who live deep underground And those who dwell in cliffs. The desert nomads, great sea serpents, The people of the lake, Thos who live to serve, to give, And those who merely take. The minstrel wakes from his deep though And merely shakes his head. There is no other world for him, Because that world is dead.
