On a bleak summer day,
A face all old and broken with lines,
Peeked through the window,
Eyes shinning with guilt,
As he stole from behind the curtain,
Moments of men,
So that he could carve,
In the stagnant listlessness of his home,
A myriad tale of love and loss,
To hang by the fireplace,
For all to witness and whisper about,
A myth, a saga, a tragedy,
A lie to give life,
To him who never lived
And lives no more,
But exists like a monument, his masterpiece,
Holding in it’s silence, secrets of the centuries.
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