T. R. Crissian
A Lost Secret
Through the night the wind blows cold,
Ore the mountains and fires old,
It rushes through lost and forgotten,
Cavern roads till the break of day that casts a spell that rings like a ringing bell.
The sound of a dragon cry pierces the clouds and reaches for the hidden moon, it bounces off the caverns in places deep where things thought not to be real live and sleep.
Ore the trees that burn a young bird flies with care listing to these sounds so fair of the wind that rings like a ringing