Achaean News
Phaestus, the Smith
Written by: Eldest Knight of Cyrene, Mayapple Xanatov, Daughter of Phaestus
Date: Thursday, December 15th, 2005
Addressed to: Phaestus, the Smith
My words are slow, forgive my grammar. My talent lies within the hammer.
The one You gave to me to show my poor heart that You care.
I will work until I tire, never ceasing stoke the fire,
For my beloved Sire, build a ladder to the Gare.
I'd sooner build a ladder than to fight to Parthren Gare.
I think I should, and that is fair.
It was deep in winter season, that I found this silly reason,
To write such poetry unceasing, for my Father up above.
I looked to ages passing, Began a time of fasting,
If only just to meditate on His paternal love.
If only just to show You of my own immortal love.
I can't send letter to You by dove.
I read volumes of Your lore, then, I read all things I found Dwarven,
Anything, but not enough. I need to study more.
More books I shall now borrow. More today and more tomorrow.
Feeding knowledge more than sorrow, hoping insight is in store.
I've been studying so deeply I've neglected my own store.
Better this, than to be sore.
Every page that I've been turning, only fans my spirit's burning,
It won't suffice until I welcome You among the world again.
And each day You linger longer, my diligence grows stronger,
And daily I find new ones who would like to call You friend.
Some become Your Children. Some remain a friend.
I remain a daughter, even past my mortal end.
Many prayers these lips will mutter. Without any youthful flutter.
In locked room with bolted shutter, will this soul outpour.
To the mortals it is seeming, I am naught but boldly dreaming.
That my mind is simply teeming with the dreams for days of yore.
I look toward the future, and honour the days of yore.
Albeit weeping on the floor.
It's certain I've grown lonely, speaking much and naught but only,
Of the one and only Father I have really ever known.
And these thoughts I've been undressing, with each word I've tried
expressing,
Only proves more water needs to kiss the seeds that I have sewn.
No reaping of the harvest, for the seeds that I have sewn.
Only time will bring You back, and time alone.
-Mayapple, the Prophet
Penned by my hand on the 17th of Lupar, in the year 409 AF.
Phaestus, the Smith
Written by: Eldest Knight of Cyrene, Mayapple Xanatov, Daughter of Phaestus
Date: Thursday, December 15th, 2005
Addressed to: Phaestus, the Smith
My words are slow, forgive my grammar. My talent lies within the hammer.
The one You gave to me to show my poor heart that You care.
I will work until I tire, never ceasing stoke the fire,
For my beloved Sire, build a ladder to the Gare.
I'd sooner build a ladder than to fight to Parthren Gare.
I think I should, and that is fair.
It was deep in winter season, that I found this silly reason,
To write such poetry unceasing, for my Father up above.
I looked to ages passing, Began a time of fasting,
If only just to meditate on His paternal love.
If only just to show You of my own immortal love.
I can't send letter to You by dove.
I read volumes of Your lore, then, I read all things I found Dwarven,
Anything, but not enough. I need to study more.
More books I shall now borrow. More today and more tomorrow.
Feeding knowledge more than sorrow, hoping insight is in store.
I've been studying so deeply I've neglected my own store.
Better this, than to be sore.
Every page that I've been turning, only fans my spirit's burning,
It won't suffice until I welcome You among the world again.
And each day You linger longer, my diligence grows stronger,
And daily I find new ones who would like to call You friend.
Some become Your Children. Some remain a friend.
I remain a daughter, even past my mortal end.
Many prayers these lips will mutter. Without any youthful flutter.
In locked room with bolted shutter, will this soul outpour.
To the mortals it is seeming, I am naught but boldly dreaming.
That my mind is simply teeming with the dreams for days of yore.
I look toward the future, and honour the days of yore.
Albeit weeping on the floor.
It's certain I've grown lonely, speaking much and naught but only,
Of the one and only Father I have really ever known.
And these thoughts I've been undressing, with each word I've tried
expressing,
Only proves more water needs to kiss the seeds that I have sewn.
No reaping of the harvest, for the seeds that I have sewn.
Only time will bring You back, and time alone.
-Mayapple, the Prophet
Penned by my hand on the 17th of Lupar, in the year 409 AF.