[Verse 1 – His Curse] They say he was Linus, von Karlstadt by name, A scholar of beasts, of roots, and of flame. But names are like leaves in the river’s bend, He’s lost them before, and he’ll lose them again. The Stern do not die, but they do not recall, Each century lost like a book from a wall. So he writes and he writes, with a desperate hand, A library taller than mountains stand. [Chorus 1 – Wry Praise] Oh Fogwalker, genius, fool, The gods made you cursed, yet made you their tool. You’ve mapped every forest, each bird on the wing, But tomorrow you’ll ask: “What was that thing?” [Verse 2 – His Works] He’s charted the rivers, the beetles, the moss, He’s counted the teeth in a dragon-king’s jaws. Each theory a triumph, each tome a delight, Each morning forgotten by candlelight. The students, the scribes, they pore through his word, Quoting the wisdom their master once heard. Yet ask him himself, and he’ll mutter, “Oh dear… Did I write that book, or just copy it here?” [Bridge – The Party Around Him] The knight bears his steel, the girl bends the stars, But he weighs the bones in his saddle jars. With a laugh and a shrug he just ambles along, Sketching the world for a book half-gone. [Chorus 2 – Bitter Irony] Oh Fogwalker, scribe of dust, Your quill is your compass, your parchment your trust. You’ve named every creature, each stone, each spring, But never remember a damn bloody thing. [Verse 3 – His Errand Without End] The fools’ errand calls him, again and again, Through jungles, through deserts, through frostbitten rain. The map is his altar, the quill is his creed, The Fog is the hunger he never can feed. What kingdoms have risen? What empires fall? He’s seen them, he’s named them, forgotten them all. Yet still he presses on, with ink on his skin, Forever beginning where he’s never been. [Final Chorus – The Troubadour Laughs] Oh Fogwalker, curse and crown, You’ve written it all, yet you’ll write it down. Immortal explorer, witless king The fool who forgets… remembers everything. [Outro – Whispered Aside] And if you should ask him, “Sir, who are you now?” He’ll frown at the ground, then answer somehow: “Perhaps I was Linus… or someone akin. But whoever I am hand me paper and pen.”
