Oh, sing of me, Muse, of how the weathered old man, who shall speak on the cliff of death. He will rise up and conquer the on standing profoundly in front of the king of the ocean. His stormy blue eyes staring omniscient towards the intruder, who seemed to want a challenge. The old man shall not falter at the icy stare, but stare back in to the kings’ stern glare. The wind quickened as they stood, the man looking down on the immortal, the sea turned as of a rabid dog upon a small scrap of meat.
Oh, cry of me, Muse, how such a puny creature staring so frightened at the kings’ wrath. Although mute, the weathered old man seemed to speak though the wind, the howling screams of mockery made the king ferrous. So he let the strengths of the waves to wipe this bother away, as the king was turning his back he noticed that the waves did not touch his but only dampen the man. The old man was boastful of this that even an immortal could not touch him from his perch in the crumbling slippery cliff.
He started to grin at the king as if he accomplished a great thing. The king was not happy one bit, the people who he encountered his treated him as a god but not this one, he did not bring gifts he only brought foolishness. The old man not knowing that the sea was the only ocean the king controlled. The sky was another source of power for the all-mighty king; he made the clouds darken with water the one peaceful clouds’ now a raging horse. He was swept of the cliff into the boiling water where he was swallowed up by the raging waves. Everything fell and became quiet the waves satisfied with their prize crept back into their shallow graves in slumber.