Oh, yes… another fantasy poem. But you gotta love Elfwood for its inspirational pictures though.

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Golden bands of dying suns dance upon the sky,
Distant chants of mourning voices whisper their good-bye.

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Creatures of the great and small, and birds of mighty wings,

Stand within a binding circle as they begin to sing.

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With quiet voices, clear as day, they throw their voices high,

Rising higher, still in song, they weep for their lost king.

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For a thing of power has bowed its head and passed beyond the earth,

And never again will a mystic being meet its fate in birth.

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The water breaks upon the shore, alive with sorrow's dread,

And trumpets from the ancient days sound deep among their beds.

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The weeds caress the trickling faces of the river-folk,

And the burning sky above hides beneath its navy cloak.

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Enduring rays of three born suns shroud the earth in red,

Timid eyes of curious nature are cast around the oak.

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For a thing of beauty has bowed its head and passed beyond the earth,

And never again will a creature pure dance and leap in mirth.

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He walks the footsteps of ancient kings, who passed here long ago,

His reign has ended and now he trots amidst the endless woe.

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A blinding white, a glimpse of gold, he walks upon the water,

Never a reflection will follow him; mirrors cannot remember.

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The king who should be last of those who rule both high and low,

Fades into his final sunset, the fire of his soul an ember.

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For a thing of memory has bowed its head and passed beyond the earth,

And never again will the one-horned myth walk within the world.

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