Though pen and parchment may run out, I will write my tales of
woe and awe,
on scraps of barks, on blades of straw,
I shall write of old men and maidens fair, of withered flesh
and beautiful hair and know,
How these stories go,
far be it for me to throw
the first stone or a foible arrow.
Upon he who dare err, for it is too human.
and suffer the consequences of that might,
Know that I bare,
my soul for all to see,
my heart, my mind
resolute in reason.
