John Drake

In dust of ages, deep and wide, beneath the weight of time’s old tide, Drake ventured down with torch in hand – his breath the only sound in sand.

The walls did whisper, wise and grim, of kings and crowns and broken hymn. A shard of light, so weak and slight, drew golden signs into the night.

He followed close, through curve and turn, where shadows fold and embers burn. A riddle cast in glass and stone, by dreamers lost, by time unknown.

The mirrors turned as one in song, their final glow had waited long. Then silence fell, the air stood still, before the heart of ages’ will.

There lay it—dim yet strangely bright, inscribed with runes of amber light. No gold, no crown, no mortal art—an eye of iron, cold of heart.

He raised it up—the light was gone, the air grew still, the ground undone. A whisper spoke from void and sea: “You guard the truth—let sorrow be.”

And Drake, the seeker, pale and worn, stood listening, dusk to morn. For what he found was more than sight—a key that turned in endless night.