Luyện nghe bài hát Song Of The Ancient

The song I perceive as I wander the woods through the
dim of dawn, lilts as it?s carried on soft shifting winds
through the stillness of early morn.

"Upon the hill, east of the woods, the old man rapt in
thought; gazing, and lost in himself. His old hands,
long and thin, but rugged, grasped the wooden staff. It
was in his hand; crooked yet strong. How many times?
How often had he before this stood on this very place, within
himself; rapt in reflection? A breeze swelled about him
his hair and wisps of beard, grey with age and wisdom of
years. He had seen much, experienced much and friends
in the Hidden Lands. But that was before; the Fall.
Glancing downward, a sea of activity, the forest teeming life
and lives. But lives are merely a doorway can be
the nature of the Ancient; the one who abides within
the Lands. The old man thinks 'I am become not what
was intended but intent am become.' And so, in servitude
to human heart, he made forfeit that which was his; the
for the tangible, the for the mortal."

By now I am by the surreality of the tale, viewing
in the old man, and at last it dawns and I realise the very
nature of mankind, and of myself, and I lay to cry.

"In his youth, the Old man the Garensword, but not now.
And yet, the legend holds one day, Man shall wield the
two-edged blade more to the conquest of nations and
strongholds and powers beyond realm."

I raise my eyes as the song to an end and a stranger
approaches as she's a friend. Extending her hand I accept
it and rise. Standing, she into my eyes. "De-nyl, we have a
long way to go. There is so much, too much, that I to show you."

"If the truth is what you seek, it is only the Ancient whose
face is seen. He remains within the Hidden Lands and may
only be reached with the Garensword in hand. Let us depart this place."

I was relieved to learn that I would not be in my quest. For
that day, became my guide. I released my falcon, the bird
high and free above the forest canopy. And yet there
remained within my the lingering memory of that tragic Fall;
the wretched of mankind and of myself. Am I who I think I am?
Am I even