I am used to being read, but I am not used to telling stories. You can find me in rooms meant for peace AND war.

I am always running, yet I never move from my bed. I carve valleys, but I have no hands.

A map with no roads, A story told in silver codes. I live in silence, vast and deep, where ancient fires never sleep.

On cold arctic nights, I shimmer, shine and dance, A mesmerizing wave, will leave you stunned at a glance, I will paint the sky, with wonderful light, A wonder of color, Such a beautiful sight

Where the ivy climbs and the falcon flies, stands a stone giant with a crown of towers, watching over the fields below.