I heard tell of a telling of a tale. It was brief and bitter, and the telling was all. But this was in Sirenah, where—are there sycamore trees in Sirenah?—where the sycamores grow tall, and the books grow short. A lilac breeze helped no doubt, and the whisper of the mountain it brought. The sun shone down on the ones who listened, and the fountains tempered his ferocity, and the teller began:
‘Long ago in the land of my youth, I knew a woman more beautiful than I could describe. One day, the king was riding by.’
I will not tell the tale in full. It was brief and bitter then, and it is brief and bitter now, and in any case I cannot remember it. It had a song that went so:
tra la la la
tra la la la
tra la la la
tra la la la la la
It was an intoxicating melody, the likes of which you have never heard, but the teller who told of this telling to me could not remember it. It was a song to charm the king, and a song to charm the people, and a song to charm the very angels—it was the tune just out of reach beyond the breakers that come from paradise—but he could not remember it. Oh that one day I will hear that song.
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Myth is the root of my being, adamantine myth, as that of the teller of this tale.
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I live and love for the myth like that lost. But I am losing my way. I feel it break inside me. I am not long for this world. Ah, it is too much to speak of.