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The Storyteller
The Storyteller, 4-4-13
It was a quiet night
Not a sound outside
Disturbed the softly spoken voice
Inside the house
All was peaceful
Except for the crackling fire
In the old wood stove
The only light that shone
Upon the watchful face’s
Came from the warm glow
Of the burning wood
And threw flickering shadows
Around the room
Like unseen ghosts
No one spoke
No one coughed or giggled
All was quiet
As the voice echoed
With a passion
While the story was being told
Her voice trembled, mellowed and shrieked
Her eyes blazed in anger
Glazed in compassion
And filled with tears of sympathy
As she recalled with love
The forgotten lore
Of a bygone age
From a country
That longed to be
A nation once again
It was a quiet night
Not a sound outside
Disturbed the softly spoken voice
Inside the house
All was peaceful
Except for the crackling fire
In the old wood stove
The only light that shone
Upon the watchful face’s
Came from the warm glow
Of the burning wood
And threw flickering shadows
Around the room
Like unseen ghosts
No one spoke
No one coughed or giggled
All was quiet
As the voice echoed
With a passion
While the story was being told
Her voice trembled, mellowed and shrieked
Her eyes blazed in anger
Glazed in compassion
And filled with tears of sympathy
As she recalled with love
The forgotten lore
Of a bygone age
From a country
That longed to be
A nation once again
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