The parchment is burning.
The stories of worlds are told in these lines:
Ink, revolution red, bleeds through these cracks.
Its writers are all, the one and the many.
When the young ones seek the answers,
The fire, the spirit, the fervour.
This is the place where heroes are made.
Made and lost and found.
As the time passes
.
The darkness is seeping through.
Sickly sweet tar that blisters and wounds.
The heroes are swept aside, smothered by ash.
This is the time for the song to start singing.
This is the time for the light to be shown.
The parchment will die in the war and the fury.
And the time will come.
For the parchment to begin again.














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