21-10-2002, 15:21
<small>Sans doute moins bon que du Keats ou du Coleridge, sans parler de Tolkien, mais bon... ;-)</small><p>Night cometh...<p>Alas! My winged father smiles, standing in his lair,<br>The Olde Wyrm of Elder Days doth his faith prepare:<br>He looketh once more to the heaven, seeking the light<br>Hearing the whispers of his own inner voice in delight.<br>All dreams come to end, myth doth not taste as afore.<br>Why were those songs made in the sweetness of yore,<br>If they're sent now into the abyss of a darkened faith?<p>Night cometh...<p>Alas! The stars are turning dim in his melancholic sore,<br>For the Olde Wyrm of Elder Days hath now closed the Door<br>Of the City and to sleep on his wounded side he doth lean<br>Night hath come on these lands but in dream yet unseen.<br>Nevermore shall he fly over the twisted roads of Faery<br>'Cause his old dreams have set him back from humility<br>And all his words lead to the same failure in Faith.<p>Night cometh...<p>Under a mournful moon, flowers and trees lost in silence,<br>At last he considers his allegiance or old acquaintance,<br>Opens wide eyes on the real world herein and its lure<br>Of his ruin doth his childish soul take the measure.<br>For what else was he than a mere child without blame?<br>Adieu! Beloved legends, sole to rembember their shame,<br>The time has ever passed to set the world in flame.<br>He sighs, not longer waiting for a face with no name.<p>Night.<p>