It was beyond comprehension. Looking upwards, a dual set of winding staircases framed a score of stained-glass windows chronicling the budding, blooming and wilting of an Etherean Rose. Beneath, a full library of the classics and a sprawling draft table, with hundreds of maps and plans scattered across the face and the floor. Down a small step, a comfortable arrangement of broad, distressed leather chairs covered in fur lined blankets complement a towering fireplace. In the dim light I could just make out the many faces in a large set of Vigorund statuettes neatly organized on the mantle. How could such a place exist? Why would a construction of such grandeur and beauty be hidden from the world? Well, I am sure I could have found many reasons, but it was the words written in the etchings that cascaded across the interior berth of the main corridor that continue to haunt me to this day. They read quite simply, in some kind of limerick or poem.For crossing the edges of plans laid supreme. For deciphering patterns just to forget what they mean. For legends forgotten deep under the ground. For the words left unspoken, let echo their sound.For soft spoken methods and delicate hands. For measuring moments, not wealth, to measure a man. For our daughters of darkness, her fair skin and black hair. For knowing the difference between hope and despair.I am past where the widows are keeping close watch. I am deep in the woods, through which we used to walk. I am over the edge, through a golden door locked. I am the song and the sadness. I wait in secret and in madness.I lay still.