There lies
A Storyteller
of the mountains,
Seeking for answers
from the Hills of Guidance,
Yet finding only darkened paths.
He tells a tale—
threads of what
once was,
weaving truths
in a voice of dead
rusts:
Silence echoes,
Forgotten souls,
Stolen Hope;
Of Fallen heroes,
And Artists and Poets
Hidden In the Ruined Roads
of the Unknown.
Then there begins the
tale of the Hunter.
Broken fragments
of a heart,
A thousand voices
Whisper in the
Bad Man’s name,
Shouting the sentence—
“You must perish and
become trapped in you own
Hellish cage you’ve
once built with your hands!”
Yet he ventured onward,
through the narrow
Rivers of shame,
To the haunted fields
of blame,
Where ancient moments
The hunter holds close,
lost on a cold,
shadowed path
of mystery.
Only the Storyteller
Tells a tale of the hunter
Who hunts the
fleeting creature
of Hope…
Though the
Storyteller knows—
He once was that
fallen hero long ago.