We scan the globe for one last hidden isle
where dwell the wizards and the ones who speak
not with a mouth but with a sort of beak,
near deadly ladies who sailors beguile;
inland we know there's a narrow defile
leads to a palace on high mountain-peak,
difficult traverse, not for the weak,
yet gods are there who when they see us smile.
There is a road we're now afraid to take
past villages where old chimneys still smoke,
into the country where wise dragons dwell.
We knew it once, that sure was no mistake,
nor any dream. But now we're under yoke,
and grown into a world that's more like hell.