Image Courtesy: srilanka.for91days.com
Crown of moss upon an oaken head,
Streaks of starlight woven in a thread.
Darkness engulfs his city of thieves,
Soon he too shall bear blood red leaves.
Like an age old elm tree, roots he shall sprout,
Turned into a mighty tree preserved even from drought.
The Wooden King shall pay for his ghastly sins,
For in the end Karma always wins.
Northern Nevermore 