The road belongs to the patient
A quiet watch turns every passing levy into a choice.
mark onethe long way
A ballad in four strokes
What the greenwood keeps
A small band can carry a forest
Four hands, one bowstring, and a thousand paths through the leaves.
mark twothe hidden path
Give the tally a human face
Every marked purse returns as bread, wool, and winter kindling.
mark threethe open hand
Leave no boast unbound
The best ballad is proved at dawn, when the clearing is still.
mark fourthe true word