Troll Bolf lies heavy, feeling so frail,
His strength now wanes, a silent, grim tale.
A dreadful misfortune has darkened his day,
And mystery looms—what could it be, pray?
He caught bird flu, though no wings to soar,
A puzzling illness he’s never known before.
He blows his nose with a shuddering gasp,
Wipes his tired eyes in a quiet, sad clasp.
In shadows of sickness, hopes flicker dim,
Yet strength resides deep within his grim,
Though peril may threaten, he refuses to yield,
For courage and love refuse to be concealed.
So heal, brave Troll Bolf, rise from despair,
Let health and joy chase away the dark glare—
For even in sickness, the spirit may soar,
And brighter tomorrows await to restore.
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Ireland is calling…
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 