and so we have come to unite all of the stories,
some of the stories,
the ones in our hands,
the ones in our years,
guarded with fettle
and metal so dreadful:
“This story one that none
want in their ears!”
“This it the tale of a heretic-born,
And these are the tales of survivors;
what Librarian mad
would feed us these sad
impossible fragments of stories?
Of things full undone,
dragged forth and won
and Hoth the Most Hoary.
We’ll curate any tale
and wiselike, withhold bail,
from any who match non our precepts,
And all of it pains;
my expenses and stains
are in part the cost
of making them me-cepts.
And who did I hire, my librums to dust?
Who but the Faeries, coiling with rust,
which turns not to Gilt and the twist of a bust,
And following them, the dread Fanfare.