Upon the cliffs where time stands still,
A lone keeper walks the winding hall,
His lanterns hum with quiet will,
Flickering dreams that refuse to fall.
Some burn steady, bold and bright,
Fed by hands that dared to try,
Others tremble in the night,
Wanin beneath a weary sigh.
Dust has gathered on a few,
Forgotten hope left undisturbed,
Yet even embers hold a hue,
A whisper soft - a light preserved.
The Keeper moves with careful grace,
Tending to the lost and dim,
He know that time cannot erase
The fire waiting deep within.
A spark, a breath, a touch of gold -
A dream rekindled, strong and free.
No flame is every truly cold,
Not while a keeper dares to see!