"You would not have called to me unless I had been calling to you," said the Lion.
Found beneath the aging air, a river slowly moving until the labyrinth does fair against the age unsoothing. A sickle bends, falling here, into this ancient dwelling. Aged and wise, yet not one dear to call. But I'm foretelling; whistling through the chambers far, the air is cool, beguiling. To stand in my own path, I bar my joy; but joy to find in following.