As a picture it clearly fits,
The wands from magic, the spells from wits.
The stories from books that elders told,
a world that bends, where, time folds.
Chorused, a faith still sounds,
On idols of wisdom, and statues on grounds,
The paths well beaten, well travelled and strolled,
By lights through different races and moulds.
So now i pick, what i'm able to hold,
From decades of learning, the fine through bold,
The crafts refined, that man can learn,
And put to test the worth of my yearn.
Yet, such is fate, on our side,
Though little we are gods, under tender hide,
But, still from our stories, we can not tell,
Which words missed luck, which spells did well.