July 25, 2005
They are paradigms of youthful art and beauty. Clearly, they are the forms of inspiring virgins, with their flowing curves and their hypnotic stares. One touch from one of these, cause the shapes of tragedy and romance to flow to life from pen, by chisel and by sword. All you rogues of a knavish sort, think I chime in with foolish report, and yet there she sits, and through my purport, she gives me said support.
In tainted wood, in darkened mire, two men were softly speaking.
Far off now, in a temple gown, a maiden stood there shrieking.
By watchful eyes throughout the night, the treasure they were keeping.
Silence stirred in the wind that night, in crypt the dead were creeping.
A father’s love, a restless child, and somber wars competing.
Bards and poets from long ago no longer dare repeating.
A portal to forgotten lands, a desert lies there, sweeping.
The dead doth walk the pale moonlight, churned up from beds of sleeping.