Disclaimer: * In mysterious voice * Ah, yes, as surely as the Golden Sun
turns on and off, I do not control it. * Great. Now I'm all confoozled. *
1 The first few drops,
Scattered like leaves,
Accompany rumbles, a distant omen
A prophecy of things to come.
And come they do,
Sending the smiling
Cluster of precocious adepts
Dashing for a rocky shelter.
All except one,
A spiky haired youth,
Standing under evening downpour
With arms outstretched.
A breathing monument
To the wonders of nature.
Why seek protection
When getting wet is mandatory?
His friends huddle
Inviting him to come,
To get them wet,
And overflow the too small cave.
But still he stands,
Ignoring their pleas,
Enduring cascading torrents,
As man was meant to do.
The rains fade away,
And the sun return,
Slowly sinking over
The edge of the world.
The steam rises,
Heated by sunshine,
The touch of King Midas,
In its own little way.
A misty wraith,
Hair plastered to head,
Peeks in on his fellows,
Who scream at the figure.
He shrugs and walk off,
And mounting the hill,
Is seen by the deserted
Who now are merely curious.
The golden ghost,
Wreathed in mist,
Practically glows
As he departs.
His friends gaze with wonder
After their odd companion
Who, despite other things,
Is much more than he seems.
AN: I foresee that you will review! It is not wise to anger the Sight…
1 The first few drops,
Scattered like leaves,
Accompany rumbles, a distant omen
A prophecy of things to come.
And come they do,
Sending the smiling
Cluster of precocious adepts
Dashing for a rocky shelter.
All except one,
A spiky haired youth,
Standing under evening downpour
With arms outstretched.
A breathing monument
To the wonders of nature.
Why seek protection
When getting wet is mandatory?
His friends huddle
Inviting him to come,
To get them wet,
And overflow the too small cave.
But still he stands,
Ignoring their pleas,
Enduring cascading torrents,
As man was meant to do.
The rains fade away,
And the sun return,
Slowly sinking over
The edge of the world.
The steam rises,
Heated by sunshine,
The touch of King Midas,
In its own little way.
A misty wraith,
Hair plastered to head,
Peeks in on his fellows,
Who scream at the figure.
He shrugs and walk off,
And mounting the hill,
Is seen by the deserted
Who now are merely curious.
The golden ghost,
Wreathed in mist,
Practically glows
As he departs.
His friends gaze with wonder
After their odd companion
Who, despite other things,
Is much more than he seems.
AN: I foresee that you will review! It is not wise to anger the Sight…