Whatever dreams remain, my world is lost. A hint, here or there, reminds me of my home, but I cannot, I would not, try to overwrite yours; I know the price, that there isn’t one, for once it’s gone, it’s gone, irreplaceable.
But if it’s allowed, I might preserve, perhaps, a story we told, long ago. It may grow here. I’d like to think something would go on beyond, and this story is the oldest thing, the most valuable thing, I have to pass down. There are no more of my kind to pass it to, but maybe you’ll hear.
Tale Told 