Tuesday, August 05, 2008

Aequitas: The Nargolost

Off the long and winding road
There lies a path, though little known.
And off that path, a grove to find,
The home of small, secluded kind.

The Nargolost, they call themselves
The grove their home, where they dwell.
Wise and kind, these small folk are,
And ever seen from afar.

But even then, the mind does trick
The seer into falling sick,
For the Nargolost are no mere folk,
But magical, weaving their yoke.

And should unwary traveller find
Himself amidst this little kind,
He will be welcomed into home,
And feast on meat, ripe from bone.

And should weary traveller stay,
He will wait, day by day
And day will pass, once again,
He will wait some more, but then
Years go by, ere traveller leaves
For that is the magic that they weave.

No memory, beyond their grove,
Will be left, in head, or trove.
So wary must yon traveller be,
If the Nargolost he sees.

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