The old folks chant a madrigal,
Of a warlock answering creation’s call.
His hands craft from void the light,
Weaving worlds, writing history bright.
The wizard’s glance shoots sparks—drip-drop,
Sets stars to brawl, to shine nonstop.
Planets rise from fairy's dust, to Chaos's scorn,
Entangled in a cosmic dance, from dusk till dawn.
Gaps gape, gaudy,
Mountains mound, massive.
His breath hisses, lovely,
Through the ****, aggressive.
“You oceans, you airs—roar and quake!
All that is, was, and will be moves with my shake.”
The mage declares: “The beard makes the man,
And I am the one who holds time in hand.”
He counts the hours, souls flutter spellbound—THNX!
And sets every rule with powerful pranks.
He grins at numbers, theories, and light,
For it’s sorcery and mystery he speaks, alright?
Shadow, shimmer, soul, sense, salt, scent—Wow!
Without him—Bang! ***!—blown by now.
The old New falls, as the new Old flies,
Being may fade, but Be never dies.
For real?
Seize the logic—Infinity’s ordeal.
