In the yellowing pages that hold history so rich,
The beauty of time is magic, magic beyond that of a witch,
The essence of the eras, that are now beyond our reach,
From the stones so ancient and the old castle near the beach.
The withering bricks of a building, that almost died in the war,
The tales surrounding a place so enchanted, often mistaken for folklore,
And she skips down the old castle, like a bud inside its whorls,
Feet bare as the ocean, underestimated depsite its roars.