An invocation to the muse of the storyteller in his deathbed

Sing to me sweet the poetry of old,
The tales of men dashing and bold,
Of secrets and treasures true and untold,
Of women of beauty both warm and cold.

Sing to me sweet the poetry of old,
Bring me my ancestors with their arms unfold,
Lull me to sleep in your eternal hold,
Wake me as the child your dreams could mold.

Sing to me sweet the poetry of old,
Guide me to heavens where your voices called.

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