Legends of Avalon: The Boy Without a Name

In hamlet small ‘neath misted hill, A boy was born with neither name nor will. His hands were call’d to toil the earth, Yet whispered dreams bespoke his worth.

The village folk with eyes askew, Spoke oft of prophecies old and true: “He that draweth Caliburn bright, Shall be crown’d with royal right; King o’er land and lord o’er hall, Camelot shall heed his call.”

Yet many a strongman, proud and bold, Had tried to lift the sword of old; The stone it stood, unmoved, austere, And none could claim the kingly sphere.

The boy would watch with quiet eye, As knights and lords would toil and try. “Foolish are they,” the elders said, “Leave the sword, lest thou be dead.”

Yet in his heart a fire did blaze, A yearning bright, a secret gaze. Though nameless, meek, and clad in rags, He felt the weight of fate’s own bags.

By night he wandered, lost in dream, Of distant halls and silver gleam; A voice, a whisper, soft and low, Spoke words the wind did only know.

And so he lingered, silent, still, Beside the sword upon the hill. What hand shall reach, what heart shall claim? None knew the boy without a name.