This is the way I have employed to pass my time while journeying alone. My target is to increase the length of this poem on fantasy to atleast 1000 or 2000 lines. Please observe whenever I update this post.

Fire and light is where it all started all of a sudden,
All in the middle of the night when wolves prowled,
The time of ebullience for the will-o-wisps of old,
The king of elves, the lord of all, mad at his loss,
His beautiful princess, the apple of his eye, forever gone.
 
The world is full of wonders, some known, some unknown,
Some never thought to exist in the human realm,
Look hard and slant into the speck of dust yonder,
Look hard till your eyes are sore, till it turn into the realm
Of elves, of fairies and wolves and will-o-wisps
 
The king of the world, the ageless Girdon the wise,
No one knows who he is, no one knows what he is,
Tales tell he came out of ether, slowly taking shape,
But that was before anything in this world happened,
And that was before anything was remembered
 
Tales tell of three kings who rules before this elf,
Tales tell he won the throne of mist without a war,
He was a very fine king, finer than all the rest we had,
That was the age of gold, the age of a happy world,
Nothing lacking, none unhappy, pray it stays forever.
 
None can escape the pleasures and vices of the world,
Pleasure in a child playing, pleasure in a flower blooming,
Need for more power and land, need for more easier life
Even Girdon the wise, mightiest and benevolent of all,
Was nothing before the quirks of the world around
 
Loneliness has at last overcome our handsome stoic king,
The desire for company, the desire for his pretty princess,
To share his joys and sorrows and fears and thoughts,
To play with his own child, to treat his consort as a flower,
To have that part of his life as his own to fool around with
 
The announcement was made, our king wants a girl,
To make her his consort, treat her as his lovely doll,
A pretty girl with long locks, twirling and golden,
The girl of eternal beauty, the girl of umpteen wisdom,
The girl that suits him as perfect as one can assume
 
The days of wild chaos have begun, people doing naught,
All busy on the streets, for that pretty bride soon to be,
Checking girl after girl, analyzing, analyzing and analyzing,
Finding faults in other’s, poking fun and getting poked back,
Some serious in the hunt, some crazy and insolent as ever
 
Why does February have twenty eight days, the little girl asks,
The king hasn’t got a clue why, neither does his bright consort,
The king asks his daughter, a day to get the answer for that,
His girl with a pout, the apple of his eye, grudgingly concedes,
The king, no where to go, the one never at loss, is in gloom
 
The king and his council summoned, shut in the great hall,
Thinking and thinking on how to satisfy the the little girl,
Buried among the ages of lore, unable to find a single speck,
A single hint of what February has done to deserve twenty eight,
The king and his queen are in gloom, till another quirk of fate
 
Those were the days when life was bright, fun and simple,
Those were the days before falsehoods and imaginations,
People content with what they had, never wanting more,
Never coveting what’s not theirs and helping those in need,
Always at peace with themselves and in peace with others
 
Feamern, the ever intelligent, the lord of the Downs asunder,
First to solve anything which troubles, said lets make a story
And be get over with it as of now, and search for it later,
There’s a kingdom to run, there are people to govern,
We need our liege, the ever ebullient, to father us as always
 
This is very new, none has thought about, none capable,
It bounces back, Feamern creating the first falsehood ever,
Through the hands of a child, what have you done, O fate!
Snatched the innocence for the happiness of a lovely child,
Peace of mind of a king who was happy thinking it solved
 
The king is happy, as is the queen, and so is the council,
All grateful for Lord Feamern, to bring the rule to tracks,
Never guessing what this innocuous thing will do to them
The king, queen and the lords, all ready with their story,
The king to his child, then narrates the story of the months
 
Long before I became the king of the world you see around,
There was a farmer Teligard who tilled all the lands abound
He was the one who invented farming and taught others,
He had twelve sons, of which Februar is the finest of all,
Rest, none bad and lazy, but he liked February the best
 
The days of Teligard are coming to an end finally with age,
It’s time to give the land to his sons, and thought of a plan,
He sent word to go on a hunt, to bring those fruits of gold,
Found only in the barren gorges at the end of the world,
Get back in ten cycles of dawn and dusk with what they got
 
All the sons raced ahead, Februar got the news the day after,
As he was at an inaccessible land on his father’s private errand
Going forth following the rest, taking a shorter route than others,
Which his father told, since he was late for no fault of his at all,
And try to make up for the time which was unwittingly lost
 
Ten days over, all came back, eldest Januar bringing thirty one,
So are the third, March and his fifth son May, the strongest of all
And seventh and eighth, the inseparable twins Jule and August,
And by the tenth October, the twelfth and youngest December
All the same number, all getting the same share of the slice
 
His fourth, April brought thirty, so did the sixth the witty June,
The others younger, the ninth September, eleventh November
Februar’s turn came then, as his father has said him the last,
To show how much he was able to get, and it was twenty eight
Teligard, too sad himself to console, left his son to weep at will
 
Rest were first shocked as he was the best, and then were happy,
For he will get the least and he will loose his fame for all eternity,
Only till when their father said why he got the least among all,
Why he got the least of all, they were never more sad in lives
All ready to swap their shares, all ready even to leave their’s.
 
But, what can be done, rules are rules, how wrong one may be,
How righteous it may be, one should be unhappy never at all,
One should never question what he has got, less or more,
So did the graceful Februar, so calm and graceful in suffering,
Pray god, it never should happen to one as deserving as him
 
Teligard should now divide his bits into those many pieces,
As the sum of apples his sons has got, three sixty five in all,
Everyone gets his share, but lo, there is a quarter of a bit left,
All brothers force Februar to take it, the quarter bit of land,
Out of shame and out of love for their brother who has lost
 
The father has given his sons the land, and told them to do,
Never to grow the same crop, each should grow different,
His one should be the one after his elder, before his next,
All getting different things, all getting at different times,
Always to share, never to fight, else all would starve till end
 
The legendary brothers of old, become part of local lore,
Their bits are treated as days in the months after them,
Januar gets his thirty one first, his time becomes January
Twenty eight and a quarter, Februar the unlucky, as his share,
Or twenty eight shares every year, twenty nine every fourth,
 
March with his thirty one, April thirty and May thirty one,
June thirty, the twins July and August had days thirty one,
September got thirty and October again thirty one with him,
November with thirty and December’s thirty one filled the rest,
This cycle of months, year we call is the end of our little story.
 
The girl started to cry, all sudden, lamenting what fate has done,
The little girl content with this cooked up story, all at last relieved,
Went along with their chores, ruling distant lands and extending,
But alas, lies became a norm, work hindered, excuses always,
People became lazy and selfish, the governance took a beating

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