Note:
None of this makes any sense. I don’t know why I wrote it. I don’t think it means anything. It was just a lark.
There are twenty ways home, and they’re all guarded by fire.
Under nineteen stones lies the town crier.
Eighteen wolves were seen in the north;
Seventeen hunters when forth.
Along the way, there were sixteen dry wells
and fifteen churches with silent bells.
Fourteen years we’ve passed in this land.
By thirteen, we could no longer stand.
But with twelve whispered words, we woke from our graves,
and in eleven nights, we were turned into slaves.
Then the ten stars rose up in the south
and nine of us fell into the monster’s mouth.
Us eight that remain have fled to the beach;
here, for seven days, hope was far from our reach.
Then six white sails arose in the sky
and in the distance, we saw five of them die.
But four ruined ships washed up on the shore,
and out of them three rebuilt like before.
But two have been sunk;
we have only one junk
There are no ways to get home
Forever we must roam.
Tale Told 