The Hall of Records

A poem of our stories

We are merely the hand that holds the pen, transcribing what flows on the wind. Echos of unraveling yarns, stories of old, melodies of bards singing of love and hearts bursting with courage.

Child’s laughter and a mother’s sorrow. Sacrifice of body and soul resulting in defeat and sometimes of victory won.

Lovers that ache for each other but could never be. Myth and lore of Gods to be feared and of Goddesses worshipped with offerings of love, fire and blood. Our prophecy spilled by the Oracle’s bones.

We, us, you, me, kith and kin or clan and those that were before the concept of time. These words that came from many, chanted, sung, shouted and whispered in spoken tongue.

The words woven into our very existence, channeled through our hearts and minds. It is not our creation but a biography of just one, of what was, is and will come.

Entrusted to hold the pen to lay these lines of dictation upon on our minds, of what gathers on the ancestral and celestial winds.