'Twas at the edge I spotted him At times I had walked with but the end of mind returning me An oaken pole in a nervous hand, another, nails gathering crumbs And lint and therefore time
Pikes had flipped aplenty And all within the brief moment I stood observant Fins of moistened awe, fangs, to froth a lust for momentary boldness Had it not been for the old man's net of loose loops adjoining Had it not been for a pact with the devil, appointing
There, as I contemplated, at guard in willow shades I aligned, as had once been written That there was to be none of them like the pride of Petravore Stealing herself, slipping nets and city gates
There, as it was mine to depart, I watched him take A staggering step towards the open, then retreating First to take a few more swings with a ravaged net In the attempt to restore the pride to PetravoreTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
