Through misty woods and paths unknown,
A wanderer walked, with a fate of his own.
With every step, the world seemed new,
Yet whispers warned of what was due.

He found a brook that flowed uphill,
Its waters gleamed, defying will.
He drank, intrigued by nature's jest,
But soon his heart began to unrest.

A raven spoke with human tongue,
"Turn back, or you'll be undone."
But curiosity drove him still,
To climb the strange and crooked hill.

There stood a tree with golden fruit,
Its roots entwined in pale soot.
He plucked one orb, that scented divine,
Yet darkness spread from branch to spine.

A storm arose, the sky turned black,
The mountain quaked, the ground did crack.
The wanderer ran, but lost his way,
As shadows danced and night turned gray.

In every turn, misfortunes grew,
The price for things that should not do.
The golden fruit, though sweet and rare,
Had cursed the path beyond repair.

At last, he knelt, both worn and frail,
The raven landed, told its tale.
"Seek not the strange, for it demands,
A debt repaid by mortal hands."

The wanderer sighed, his lesson learned,
The world's odd ways must not be spurned.
For every marvel comes at a cost,
A balance kept, for all that's found and lost.

And so he rose, the fruit left there,
To tread with wisdom, stepped with care.
The strange may call, its lure may gleam,
But fortune's light is not what it seems.