The Sage

The Sage

His mind was never touched by age
Engraved in his heart were old books
Every word from every page
The lines on his wrinkled face explained time’s concept
His eyes, though dull, held mysteries in their depths

He communed with the wind; wisdom in insanity
To him, the eclipse was both hideous and pretty
His grey hair like a white river, running through with knowledge
He alone understood death as a blissful passage

“The wise one”, “the frail one”, nobody knew his real name
It was the least of his worries but truly he had fame
He answered the oak tree’s riddles, sitting in his worthless throne
“Here lies the nameless sage,” so says his gravestone

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