You stand before the door of rotting wood,
All lichen-mottled gray and green, the stone
Wall matching. You knock. Do you know the words?
The door stands silent, then it gives a moan
That sounds like clippers rotting in their docks,
Then silence from the door, the tumbling blocks.
You do not know why you are here, why you
Must find the key, to find the words which mean.
The words which woo through too tough times, are true
Enough to let you…