Finis Coronat Opus

Amid a sea of flame and smoke, In darkest shadow, as the yoke Of evil falls upon the free, And kings are forced to bend the knee Before their city, ash and stone, There rises up a knight, alone. His robes are tattered, stained, and torn, His brothers, fallen ‘neath the horde That swarmed through ancient halls of stone And left the grandeur broken down; Through treach’rous deed of lesser man, This realm shall never rise again. But up against a demon foul, The last knight sets his noble brow And raises sword of brightest steel That e’er was forged ‘neath royal seal, And charges forth, himself forgot, To lay in dust this evil blot. A fight most terrible to see, Of flame, and spark, and life to be, Or living death in shadow’s thrall, Should darkness set his throne o’er all; Yet still the noble knight endures, His heart of courage burning pure. And so, the fiery demon falls, The heralds all take up the call; But costly is this vict’ry won, For many fell of this land’s sons. Their deeds of v...

Against a dark and mortal foe, Where cloud and shadow ebb and flow Beneath the black and fiery sky That bids all hope despair and die; Far from the West, beyond the sea, Where starlight gleamed upon the trees And eagles soared o’er mountains fair, Where endless song dwelt in the air, Behold! there swells a mighty wave Of banner, shield, and swordsman brave Upon the brink of radiant light, That pierces all the host of night. Upon the sea of grey and dark This host of light, this flaming spark, Descends, and swift, ‘neath golden flood, The shadow flees, with heroes’ touch.

When days, like oceans, ebb and flow, And men pass to and fro; When dark have been their thoughts of late, And weariness is great; When sun has ris’n and set beyond The count of mortal throng, And still the tread of Time looms grim Through all that yet has been; When generations, through the years, Have dwelled too long on fears, And deeds of greatness lie forgot, In hearts where flame is not; Beware! for now is soil of souls Prepared for doom of old, Where shadow’s seed can oft be sown, And hope be overthrown.

A golden throne in great hall stands Before a throng of nobles grand; Upon it rests the King, with crown Fair gleaming on his royal brow. As tribute nations bring before, And matters of the law and lore, One’s eye may catch, hid in the wings, A humble lad with pen and ink. His records tell of conquest great, Of prior kings who met their fate Beneath the sword of sovereign dread, ‘Ere crown adorned his noble head. And writes this scribe of justice done In matters grave beneath the sun, And mercy shown to innocence; Aye, fair has this King’s rule thus been. Yet how, without the young lad’s pen, Would those to come remember when This noble ruler walked the land,  And peace upon it brought again?

‘Neath the smoke and cloud of war, Amassed on field below  March rank on rank of battle-torn And weary, weakened souls. The soldiers face a brutal foe, Who, through the ages long, Has sought for e’er to bring them low, And weaken so the strong. The troops press on, though fight is fierce, And death flies through the air; If enemy lines they cannot pierce, Their spirit will despair. As soldiers fall on bloody field, Though sore their comrades’ hearts, They steel their souls and banners wield, And fill the fallens’ part. For every man who bleeds and ides ‘Mid warriors of the light, Ten more shall rise up where he lies, And strive to win the fight.

The tread of Time is marked with blood Of warriors slain ‘neath battle’s flood, Where kings and armies came to blows And cursed fore’er their hated foes. Those weapons, forged in anger hot, Now ‘neath the soil decay and rot; And battles waged with fire and sword Have long since passed to books of lore. Yet, when the wars have long been dead, What spurs men on, to joy or dread, Or hastens feet upon the path, And bids them hope to find at last? ’Tis not the clash of hot-forged steel That helps the generations heal, Nor bloody cries of fighting fierce That makes the stiff neck bend an ear. For words burn long upon the heart Far longer than the archer’s dart, And pass for ages through the minds Of those who truth would seek, and find.