Shall I tell my tale?
A tale not to tell?
Of its heroes, villains
Heavens and Hells?
I must tell my tale.
Of the grand fall of Bale.
It began with a girl,
As tales often do,
But this girl was a windmill,
Of fine, sturdy yew.
She lived on a hilltop,
Far from me and you.
Deep in the Hells she spun her beige wings,
Flying about and spying on things.
The Farmer asked her, as fate would have it,
How she acquired this terrible habit.
She spoke with a triumph, a duty, a cause
Of how she had learned of Hell and its flaws
Of how she must mend the Land of the Falls.
Of how she would deliver it from Heaven's snug jaws.
But that tale is for a later date,
When I once more decide to open the Gate.