They say he is Ancient and Beloved,

But few remember his name;

He stands on a hill,

As the wind runs through his ancient hair;

And he thinks to his past,

When his children were there;

His youngest would stay with him,

And keep him company;

While his eldest ran to the forest,

Unkempt and unclean;

He thinks back to the time,

When his brothers were near;

When all was good,

And oh so clear;

When towers stood tall,

But Gods stood taller;

And there bonds were formed,

That he never imagined would falter;

They say that he is Ancient and Beloved,

That where he goes they will follow;

But here he stands on a hilltop,

Tired, and Alone.