I walk among the forest oaks,
The wind wisps through their mighty leaves,
To the bark I stand of the greatest mighty tree,
The path it splits with its might,
Holds steadfast the years,
I draw my sword,
Point to bark,
Writing with the blade,
One man holds his own upon this point in time,
Neither blade nor pen shall stop his quest of knowledge left untold,
For he travels for pen in hand,
A magician of words to be sowed,
To the paper he is a genius,
To common folk a god,
To eternity he is a struggle,
To world he has his own,
He wanders through the forest,
Mind full of thoughts,
To spread stories untold,
Of lands yet to be discovered,
Creatures of mystical olds,
He will wander till he finishes,
The stories all be told,
For he is the writer,
For I am the writer.
