Ebony like elegantly carved wood
A fixture,
A statue,
Outside the human's place.
Brooding.
Locked into silence.
Sunrises pass him by as cartwheels,
Impudence from a spoiled child.
Sulking does that bright orb sink,
Plunging beneath the horizon.
Silvery moonlight graces his curving horns,
His solemn eyes.
Nothing moves.
A scarred face.
A scarred time.
Life goes on and the silent mountain watches.
Do not stop to ask of him, traveler.
He is a myth.
A legend, best left to the straining ribbons of Time.
He is silence.
Do not pause to look, traveler,
In the minotaur's eyes,
Or you may see within what you dread.
And he may even open mighty jaws and speak,
In a rumble that fills the land,
To quiver the very mountains --

"I am Urald Abere."