He once was a watcher of magnificent things
The lord-protector of the lyre and its magic
But his charges have long since abandoned the lake
At the encroaching winter of the soul
In a uniform of faded symbols
Amid the crumbling ruins of Cygnus's idols
As he hears the swansong that calls from below
Tired eyes spinning with descending spirals
The warden of the final whirlpool
Stands waiting at twilight
On the event horizon

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