Walking the night-black moor
He was the zephyr in the meadows,
He was the amalgam of chance
A continuum of moon-shadows.
He was the music of the ages,
He was the footprint of the dawn
The wisdom of the sages.
Climbing the evanescent hills
He was the scent of the flowers,
He was the dew on the ramparts
An echo of bygone lovers.
He was the early fall,
He was a waking dream
The reason for it all.
He was, is, and will be
He is chaos, death, life, serenity
The wordsmith of continuity.
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