MystyrMystyry
11-01-2016, 03:35 AM
The Grublun of Ziggery Zong, lives in a dream wrapped in a song;
With bright green hair and razor sharp nails, he grins with big yellow teeth;
In the darkness lit by candle light, throughout the forest, throughout the night,
He digs holes into the soil, deeper still, to see what lies beneath;
He once had a name - long since lost - now he's nameless, that was the cost
Of searching for treasure, until that night, when he struck a pile of bones;
A bunch of the things in a rotten box, when he broke away the rusty old locks;
It took a moment, and a couple of blinks, to dig it out from the stones;
And when he did , beyond the decay, a sense of loss and of great dismay;
For emanating from the bones, he heard a voice, a faint and crying moan;
It went right through him and swirled around, to the edge of the forest it was bound;
But it returned to the box with a throbbing sob, and settled into a groan;
He stopped a second, put close his ear, perhaps some words he could hear?
And perhaps he did, and as he was poised to so intently listen;
Whole phrases he could discern - if he could decipher he might learn...
But so poised, he suddenly spied, a hidden something golden glisten;
He plucked the shiny golden locket, the tiny thing and began to stroke it;
'What is this?' he unlatched its catch; 'What is this?' the Grublun wondered;
It sprung wide open to disclose the lover's portrait that had been enclosed;
But then he realised what he had done - an ancient grave he had plundered!
Whatever its words they are not for him, they belong to a distant time;
He hastily gathers those ancient bones and those rusty locks;
Quick he hurries to reverse his doing, those bones back into the box a-throwing;
And finally he does seal it up, the bones and locket, all in the box;
He buries it shallow, then runs for his wits, and by the pond rests and sits;
Then checks himself that there wasn't a curse, fingers and toes still in place;
His eyes still work, and though he trembles (a shaky tree he resembles)
No marks, no warts, no open sores, nor poxes upon his face;
But alas his name, which he knew before, was gone as if he'd closed a door;
Now just the Grublun, who had heard what shouldn't, nor be held;
And he was lost in the forest for all time, without reason, without rhyme;
Long gone are his friends, as the memories of centuries together meld
.
With bright green hair and razor sharp nails, he grins with big yellow teeth;
In the darkness lit by candle light, throughout the forest, throughout the night,
He digs holes into the soil, deeper still, to see what lies beneath;
He once had a name - long since lost - now he's nameless, that was the cost
Of searching for treasure, until that night, when he struck a pile of bones;
A bunch of the things in a rotten box, when he broke away the rusty old locks;
It took a moment, and a couple of blinks, to dig it out from the stones;
And when he did , beyond the decay, a sense of loss and of great dismay;
For emanating from the bones, he heard a voice, a faint and crying moan;
It went right through him and swirled around, to the edge of the forest it was bound;
But it returned to the box with a throbbing sob, and settled into a groan;
He stopped a second, put close his ear, perhaps some words he could hear?
And perhaps he did, and as he was poised to so intently listen;
Whole phrases he could discern - if he could decipher he might learn...
But so poised, he suddenly spied, a hidden something golden glisten;
He plucked the shiny golden locket, the tiny thing and began to stroke it;
'What is this?' he unlatched its catch; 'What is this?' the Grublun wondered;
It sprung wide open to disclose the lover's portrait that had been enclosed;
But then he realised what he had done - an ancient grave he had plundered!
Whatever its words they are not for him, they belong to a distant time;
He hastily gathers those ancient bones and those rusty locks;
Quick he hurries to reverse his doing, those bones back into the box a-throwing;
And finally he does seal it up, the bones and locket, all in the box;
He buries it shallow, then runs for his wits, and by the pond rests and sits;
Then checks himself that there wasn't a curse, fingers and toes still in place;
His eyes still work, and though he trembles (a shaky tree he resembles)
No marks, no warts, no open sores, nor poxes upon his face;
But alas his name, which he knew before, was gone as if he'd closed a door;
Now just the Grublun, who had heard what shouldn't, nor be held;
And he was lost in the forest for all time, without reason, without rhyme;
Long gone are his friends, as the memories of centuries together meld
.