Luyện nghe bài hát Song Of The Ancient

The I perceive as I wander through the woods through the
dim light of dawn, lilts as carried on soft shifting winds
through the of this early morn.

"Upon the hill, east of the woods, the old man stood in
gazing, contemplative and lost in himself. His old hands,
fingers long and thin, but rugged, the wooden staff. It
was familiar in his hand; crooked yet strong. How many
How often had he before this stood on this place, lost within
himself; in reflection? A light breeze swelled about him
his hair and wisps of beard, grey with age and wisdom of
years. He had seen much, experienced much and known
in the Hidden Lands. But that was before the Fall.
Glancing downward, a sea of activity, the forest with life
and lives. But lives are merely a wherethrough can be
the nature of the Ancient; the one who abides 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 that was his; the intangible
for the tangible, the for the mortal."

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

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

I raise my eyes as the song comes to an end and a
approaches as though she's a friend. Extending her 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 have to you."

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

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