I saw a yellowed tome, there opened on the stand.
I read a strange inscription about a foreign land.
I dreamed about that place I never truly saw
and wept at their condition, the loss of all their law.
It lies in ruins now, that mighty empire,
felled by a great musician, a subtle, cunning liar.
From far across the sea, his soft commands—to Dream—
dark spells from a magician for all the world they seem.
One of the things he said: "I'm not the only one."
This terrible admission rings like a sounding gun.
'Twas by a gun he died—and yet his voice still rings;
and of his strange proscriptions I hear his voice still sings.
Tale Told 