Were days that long, was grass so green,
In seasons of youthful desire,
Roaming o’er seas of aquamarine,
Where westering suns drown in fire?
’Cross mountain, forest and river,
I’d wander, carefree and bold,
Never heeding the days to come,
When I’d wake up, slow and old.
Oh, how the silent summer noon,
Warms dusty memories,
In an orchard, midst my dreams,
’Neath verdant, shadeful trees.
Come visit me, you little ones,
Hear stories, songs and rhymes,
A roving warrior’s saga,
Of far-gone, golden times.
—Kroova’s Song