An Epic Poem - The Tale of Libax the Righteous

For one of the faithful few who actually read this nonsense!

Come one, come all,
My dear maids and men,
come to the fire, be warmed by my words.

You asked for a tale, young sir,
Said 'spare not the glory, nor honour, nor power
and make it quite good, eh?'

So I'll give you your 'logue,
Thirst for adventure be sated,
when you hear the Tale of Libax the Righteous.

In a land far off, in thought and in space,
A way not trodden, through dense ferny dales,
we find our dear hero, about her ways.

Our patron saint, in those far off lands,
She stands tall and strong, determined and pure,
with a voice that melts ice, and lies.

Now, saints start humble, none born into patronage,
With hearts of pure crystal and heads full of hair,
though most will add crystal to their dark locks.

They stand between man and God, 'twixt lover and lost,
With hands in the dirt and eyes on the sky,
roaming our Earth, causing good will.

Of course our fair hero, the inimitable Libax,
Is not at all different, as this tale will tell.

Not so much born as bequeathed, a gift,
To us the mere mortals, who quiver like reeds,
an example, a statue of upright, correct.

Leaving behind, conventions and frivols,
putting asunder, the cares of us simpler types,
she rides a grey stallion, and heralds the truth.

I tell of a voice, clear and far reaching,
And so it was simple, calling unveiled,
to lead forth the singers and blessed others, her task.

Our fledgling saint, now commissioned and sent,
Put to the test by torturous evils. Condemned to live
with jester-cum-fool, her patience grew to inordinate strengths.

Eyes of clarity and mind filled with stratagems,
Heart of gold, crystal and silver, burnished, tested,
tried and true.

Libax, the warrior, the priestess, the princess,
Our hero, our favourite, our Patron Saint.

Astride grey 'fuego', the fore mentioned steed,
she powers onwards, towards the inevitable transfer,
where life becomes more and death left undone.

Time and tide may wait for none,
But Libax pays even less heed,
punching through stratospheres with ferocious aplomb.

Those singers and songstrells, once hearing the voice,
Lost not a moment to unite their wills,
and capture her sainthood, for their lost cause.

Libax the righteous, formed and fulfilled,
Though far from finished, or ceasing at all,
stands tall to guide, a Patron Saint of Singers.

Say what of an ending, your eyes seem to speak,
Tell of the transfer, the switch that you spoke,
but to tell all is not my dominion, nor my realm.

See, my friends, this story's come far,
and much left to do, but like all the best endings,
it is yet to be told.