Luyện nghe bài hát Song Of The Ancient

The song I perceive as I through the woods through the
dim light of dawn, lilts as it?s carried on shifting winds
the stillness of this 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 familiar in his crooked yet strong. How many times?
How often had he this stood on this very place, lost within
himself; rapt in reflection? A light breeze about him
ruffling his hair and wisps of beard, with age and wisdom of
years. He had much, experienced much and known friends
in the Hidden Lands. But was before; before the Fall.
Glancing downward, a sea of activity, the teeming with life
and lives. But are merely a doorway wherethrough can be
expressed the nature of the Ancient; the one who within
the Hidden Lands. The old man 'I am become not what
was intended but intent am become.' And so, in servitude
to human heart, he made forfeit which was his; the intangible
for the tangible, the for the mortal."

By now I am intoxicated by the 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 that one day, Man shall wield the
blade once more to the conquest of nations and
strongholds and powers beyond realm."

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

"If the is what you seek, it is only with the Ancient whose
face is never seen. He remains within the Lands and may
only be reached with the in hand. Let us depart from this place."

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