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.