Past the green, the lush, the ever-forest, the rivers of ice, and sands of time, I await in my den for thine. Perhaps I should run, perhaps I should flee, but, nigh, that is not me, for I have never been, and never shal, be a beast that runs from thou. Chase me, hunt me, bring me down, care I not, as long to keep I mine crown. Not a crown, my fair-fighting-fool, that ever would seek thee, but a crown of honor and just, that hangs amonst the trees. You will never see it, hear it, be it, nor touch it in any way or praise. Search all your days, but nigh of it, for it is nothing but mine life, death and den. I wonder, then, why you hunt me. I do not try against it, but question it I shall. Why are you so keen of mine pelt, that holds mine heart, and all it smelt; what it’s sought in times of need, what it’s found when need of feed. Need you not mine as much I do, for without- I am slew; but another may you find, in leaf, earth, or mind- but why, then, seek the hide of breathe that nigh lives without; a gruesome death. I do not hunt you, nor do I please, for all I care your worth mine fleas. So now I await in mine den, for the end of my life, in not how, but when.
