the white mystic

a man with golden flaxen hair
walks with mighty breathless air
and soundless hooves from freshest snow
under the mooney glow he stares

and on his mighty stamping steed
he climbs up mountains of golden sand
and remembers stories in ancient words
these ancient people never heard

with books of leather bind he writes
with sea-born ink, and quill in hand
a pouch of yeast to make the leavened bread
while others in their hovels sleep

the smokes did rise and in their hovels they do weep
these people with their glory and their leagues
with a feathered quill he does write
with all his glory and his might