Called to that sacred place. Not being able to be there. The frustration of exile. Of absence. The torment of soliloquy here where nobody understands. It is but the cauldron of a mighty spell. For that which cannot be travelled to is pulled by the sheer intensity of those thoughts to where the sorcerer resides.
Slowly that ancient place of magic finds a new vale to nestle in. Slowly. For he is its guardian and the keeper of its secret. He bears the key to its entry. He is the key to its entry. His vibration. His signature. His essence.
Therefore, as a wanderer between worlds he ventures there devoid of the form of this realm but within the husk of one of another realm. He nestles down along the side of that ancient hill and exists in two places. He is the conduit between the two.
Slowly that magic dies in its resting place. Surely that magic moves towards him for he is that magnet. He is the quicksilver host. It wanders through the aether. Along the dragon lines to he. To his place in time, and surrounds itself around him.
The timeless lady in white now dances beside him. She is the newest phenomena in his room. She is ancient. She is the queen of that realm. She makes herself known to him. That her people are on the move to a new home.
He is the white fool, exiled from that gentle land. But they shall follow him to the ends of this earth. To form the doorway where so ever the key is found.
He cannot wander back to they.
So they must come to him.....
