The guardian
The guardian
Behind the peaks of widow's hold,
where dead man's gorge lies vast.
There time stops, 'twas foretold;
as truthfulness lies in the past.
To tread on plains which shadow guards,
Master and will must clash.
Lies equal houses of cards,
Crumbling down with every bash.
Omens drift from venue to time,
Lead him from hearth to frost.
Legend’s voice used to chime,
Not all those who wander are lost.
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