i, the man called chase
what blessed word did he write, my son
what blessed song has he sung
a chapel-hung bell rung, a call to come
for which eager children run
what market day
where even frugal fathers find themselves
glad to pay
for trinkets tucked away
godly statues made of jade
where one would hear the whispers
of such a bardic sage
that cloaked and lumined mage
what alley dark and hidden where to find his weathered face
where to cast a silver coin
in honor of his trade
and buy an ancient whispered spell
for eternities of grace
and when the traders wagons gone and the chapels hollow cleft
a word can reach the hooded man and bring his warmth abreast
by way of ravens breath