Basnicky.sk

His tribe was old
his beard was long
his heart was bold
his hands still strong.

Many winters had he seen
traveled from east to west
in many places he had been
trying to do his best.

Sitting by the fire
from dusks to dawns
his friends from Naire
the great grey wolves.

A weary, friendly old man
walking on the road
on his neck hung a gem
robes of red, green and gold.

The words of his
pleasant were
never met bliss
his life was mere.

The old man`s magic
the gift of Gods
he had seen a lot af tragic
upon his routes.

His best friends
birds and beasts
ancient Ents
and Elves that feast.

The world of old
before his eyes
‘s fading from gold
and slowly dies.

His magical power
all was spend
for a blessing shower
to People in the end.


Upon the ridge, he stood alone
clouds circling above
he cast down the heavy stone
done all in the name of love.

Descendant of the Mighty Ones
the time of his soon comes
when all that he has learned
to ashes and dust will be burned.