Preamble: A Silent Three Parts

This is the night.

 

Waystone hotel laid a silence, which is a three-part silent.

 

The most obvious part

is a hollow, echoing quiet.

 

Things lacking.

 

If there is wind, it sighed through the trees.

Inn sign, its hook creaking,

like the leaves and brush

on the road

trailing silence.

 

If there had been people–

even a very small number of hotels

within the men–

they will have the conversation and laughter filled the silence.

 

Clatter and clamor.

One expects the dark hours in the night.

The house from the water.

 

If there is no music…

 

But of course no music.

 

In fact, none of these things, so remained silent.

 

Waystone man curled up inside the bar for a corner.

They drank, a quiet determination

to avoid serious discussion

of troubling news.

 

In this process, they added

a small, sullen silence.

Large, hollow.

It is made of alloy, a counterpoint.

 

The third silence is not an easy thing to note.

If you listened to an hour,

you may begin to feel.

The foot of the wooden floors

and rough, split barrels behind the bar,

it is the black stone fireplace.

 

A long-held fire.

Hot dead weight.

 

This is a slow back

and a white linen cloth,

rub the bar.

Raised for food.

 

It is the people standing there,

polished mahogany has a light

shining in the hands.

 

The man really red hair.

Red as flame.

 

His eyes are dark and distant.
He must know a lot of subtle things moving.

 

Waystone is his, just as silence is his third.

This is appropriate because it is the largest of the three silent.

Others inside of the package itself.

 

This is the outcome of the fall of deep and wide.

This is a great river.

Smooth stone weight.

 

This is a patient, is to die.

 

Cut a person’s voice.

 

Poem written by Ian P. Johnson using the prologue of Name of the Wind, ©2007 by Patrick Rothfuss, and Google Translate, ©2011 Google.

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