In the abyss of father time,
Where echoes weave a haunting chime,
A soul embarks on a quest unknown,
Ten thousand hours of skills to hone.

Through the abyss of the midnight air,
A lone artisan is burdened by care,
Fingers dance with spectral grace,
A pact with mastery met in eerie embrace.

In the crucible of the ceaseless grind,
A symphony of effort with a most spectral mind,
Perfection’s veil worn in ghostly shroud,
Unveiled by hours to a mocking crowd.

As the clock strikes the upteenth hour,
A craftsman emerges from his tower,
Perfected, a creation forged in strife,
Completion, reflecting the master’s life.