Poem By alexus jones
Once there walked a wanderer
Whose vigil voice and Thorian thunder
Searched river low, still knolltop high,
For the Land of Désenéiamoor,
Wherein, they say, the gods were born.
Through gleaming, glazing, alpine isles
He forged a footway far ahigh,
Yet found found no single Dumhnall tarn,
From the Land of Désenéiamoor,
The land, they say, the gods have bore.
Then the wanderer, consumed,
Collapsed into a deep lagoon
And slowly drifted deep to sleep,
Where there he saw a distant moor,
The Land, he said, beyond the shore.
I am seeking health! ' he cried,
Then found himself to stand nearby
A Man whose eyes did glimmer, shine;
'Ahead lies Désenéiamoor,
The Land, I know, not seen before.'
And in His eyes there rose a note
That mortal tongue has never wrote:
The Song of Désenéiamoor.
'Tis nighttime now; ah, here's the morn!