He gathers tales, sings them for a pittance
Holds peasants spellbound on the brink of fright
With weird myths that bewilder, if one might
See their meaning past the poet's flagrance
But all are in awe of his strange presence
And lend their ears until it is midnight
And the stars start to shine cold, distant, bright
With an ancient sentience, in silence

Come dawn and he leaves, do not dare follow
For this man treads where no mortal can go
To the stars that sired him, he unveils
A vista of a repugnant hollow
Where above all, you hear their great bellow
It is here the Old Ones tell him their tales