A daemon wanders in these ancient halls,
its skin of flame and mind of mem'ries full:
of cities burn'd and men who fell and cried
and gods who fought and gods who died, and gods
who stared with tired eyes. Books on floors, torn
and lives and stories, lost. Great things are gone.
For within these halls, a daemon wandered;
his form of many, thinking thoughts: of ghosts
he made and what he is, a concept formed
and then forgot. Delivered unto men
of life, to which was brought the daemon's thoughts
to be forever born, forever born.
A stranger wanders in these ancient halls,
his ev'ry thought of heaven's beauty fall'n.
'Hind stand knights and snakes of limb, with will to
allow the fire's feast on words and worlds
and blessed things. And as the smoke begins
to rise, the monsters laugh, while wonder dies.