Histories

He's somewhere,

The old hermit,

And he's writing books,

You and me,

We're in them,

'Cus he sees all of us,

All as we cannot help,

And the furious pen,

Falling, gliding, marking,

To a furious smile that he turns,

And the one fire that burns,

To keep his paper hands awake,

One dedication,

To line the halls of eternity,

With all the volumes of mankind,

And your heroics will go second,

And your beauty will go first.