Poem: The Last of the First

Found in Robert's Private Museum


Over tall lands at sea
Towards the wane of the One
Looks the Last of the First
Awaiting all that is done

For the passage of time
When the whole is made grist
Of man’s labor beyond
Ancient stones and white myst

Standing in sole vigil
Over horizon’s swell
A lock holding at bay
What must never prevail

For what hides in shadow
Behind folded divide
Breeds a banished offense
None but fault can abide

So shine not in his eyes
Reject the image found
Nay, pull aside the veil
Leave the wickedness bound

Or suffer in his sight
Trapped in their echo’s sin
Beneath eyes shining bright
And the chaos within


Originally written in an ancient language (Ancient Hurradric), Robert has an Entian translation sitting next to it. They are part of his private museum behind a secret door found in the bookcase of his main floor office. He has only shown this to Sarah, telling her that the parchment is over 1,500 years old.

Poem: The Last of the First

Hurradrum AndrewScott