Note: A fantasy poem about the Whispering Mountains lasted edited 11/5/19. Poem includes a mention of a character who remains in the background of my stories, albeit under a different name.

Heroes with songless tongues, hear my cry, trumpet my call, my strong warriors!
Monarchs by silence held, heed me, attend my words, rulers of ages past!
Ploughmen in quiet’s clasp, list to me, flock to me, tillers of earth’s skin!
Guide when I write of war, aid when I sing of kings, lead when I speak the
Hearts of men- teach me that man of his fellow may know. But here, reader,
Read this old tale of a treacherous time and with wonder now ponder.

Mountains turn white, as the hunter’s cheek pales when he spies a great beast, a
Cyncrayth of legend, so stone fades to sea foam when mists curl around them;
Spires wear the veil of a mourning man- his tears meet hands which for her a
Necklace did make. Like the pillows of giants who smother their foes, so
Morganne- made mist soft enclasps the mountains. The whispers of wind with
Lost lark song laden to wander for always and to ne’er find the home-nest.

Men, like the mites on an elephant’s back, without reck men do skitter;
Blind in the mountains majestic and deaf to malevolent tones, as
Sailors, with salt- speckled cheeks, will oft peer into sunrise unmoved, so
Men of the mountains will look on the crags, and then fall on their foe with
Glee and with scorn. Men will search in the mountains for men who know him, but
Darkness pervasive attends with the whispers, and one man alone is.