Come, listen, gather round,
For I will tell you a story
That wants to be told.
Long ago, in forgotten times,
When magic roamed free,
And justice was true.
There was a mage,
Unknown is his name.
One day, as happens to all,
Death came to him,
With scythe in hand.
And he spoke to the mage,
'It is your time, old friend.
Come with me and rest.'
The mage had feared for this moment for all his life,
And he spoke a word of Power,
So wicked and evil,
Even Death feared it and fled.
The mage lived for another hundred years,
Until Death came to him again,
With scythe in hand.
He spoke to the mage,
'Come with me, old friend,
For your time here is over.'
The mage replied, with great power in his voice,
'Not yet, Death.'
And Death was fearful and fled.
Thus another hundred years passed,
And the mage grew older than any Elf.
His hair became white,
And his eyes went blind.
His skin turned grey,
And even the lightest touch would break his bones.
The mage called out, in his creaking voice,
'Death, old friend, take me with you!
Relieve me of the burden that is life!'
But Death did not listen to his prayers,
And the mage still prays today, dead but alive.
A shadow of a man, crippled and in pain.
If you see a man wishing he could live forever, have pity on him.
For he does not understand life itself.
*bows*