Ancient - Oh! So ancient being.

In your eyes, only a select few seeing

The depths of weary sighs.

Silent woes in his hearts lie.

Shallow joys within which he'll for a time be reveling,

Can sometime barely hide his sorrows, so unsettling.

Face so young, eyes so old,

life so long and vast and slow!

Alas!

Onward! Ever running,

Geronimo! Every jumping,

Allons-y, spake he, in sweat and heat

with racing heart and pounding feet.

Twixt time and space, relative in happening,

Ran he away

From ancient and most great society: Gallifrey.

Strong and olden power, unyielding

He longs - his lost home - for to return.

His hearts' dear wish - for which he so long has yearned.

Lonely Lord, Angel and God,

Seldom normal, rather, strange and odd.

Healer, caretaker, wise man.

Doctor.

The name without a face.

Ever-changing visage leaves no trace.

Only living legend under lock and key

His secret hiding.

The answer, on the fields of Trenzalore abiding.

At the fall of the Eleventh,

Let the silence fall,

When the name of the Lonely God,

Is spoken before all.