I am imaginary, but none can make me go away.

Wondrous is this Rapaire;
given hence by fate,
his mind undecayed;
his the work
of a giant mind.

Roofs are fallen,
ruined are the towers,
despoiled are the towers
of the minds of others;
frost is on their cement,
broken are the roofs,
cut away, fallen,
undermined by age.

But his grasp of reality,
stout grip of the real,
holds his mighty mind,
his precious thoughts,
till a thousand generations
of people have died.