The only issue, not by blood, is the issue yond thee might seeketh.
At the endeth of hour, the tyrant rules, that gent holds the key to the plight of weak.
Not by nature but by fate, only one to taketh the gift of loveth.
Beginneth of endeth shalt commence at which hour his essence his belov'd shalt reek.
I reread the poem of whatever was handed over to me by Malin. Still nothing went into my head apart from the fact that it was written in the Shakespearean. If I translated it to the present day English, it not sound better than a poem.
"What is this? A poem of wanna be Shakespeare?" I waved the old damaged sheet before Malin as I questioned.
"That is a five hundred year old page made up of pure animal skin and written in a freshly made ink, that, you so carelessly are waving like a
