Empty,
breathless winds and whisperers
brought you here:
the edge of Paradise.
They wooed you with fleeting promises of better days
and of painless nights.

Rumour had it that,
at the end, you would come to visit me,
and now you kneel,
another dim, echoing Rumour -
mentioned and forgotten.

You’re not the first,
nor will you be the last to bow,
flickering eyes unseen,
whispering at the end.
The dance of cold stones that soften fingers
and shatter hardened hearts,
condemns you.

And, after you, others will come;
other whisperers and listeners,
anon,
who have named me the Wish-Maker.
And I will make them, as I have made you,
immortal