Luyện nghe bài hát Song Of The Ancient

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

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

By now I am intoxicated by the surreality of the tale,
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 that one day, Man shall the
two-edged blade once more to the conquest of and
strongholds and beyond this realm."

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

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

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