Finis Coronat Opus

When days of ease descend upon A people strong and free, Who toil and work beneath the sun Their living well to keep, Then treasure they the bounty great That worked they so to store, And rest beneath the bough and brake They planted long before. But what of those who never strove, Or worked, or planted field, Nor learned the toils of men of old, What doing thus should yield? So days of ease a blessing are To those who know the cost; But ignorance leaves brutal scar When fruitful times are lost.

Frozen in the stream of Time As bustling hordes pass quickly by, There stands a stony edifice That harkens back to days of bliss And times of greatness, might of kings, Battles valiant, hope to bring. In such days past, men built with care, With minds set toward their future heirs, And made their cities long to last, Their temples great, their castles vast, Bedecked in splendor, murals bright, With colonnades bathed in sunlight. Well knew these men they might not see Their work complete ‘ere death there be; Yet pressed they on, and beauteous made The things to which they turned their face, For sake of those who later came To dwell among these deeds of fame. And still they stand, long cent’ries since, As ought they still to do years hence; For generations pledged their hands To beautify their native land, And now all those these wonders see May awestruck and inspired be.

A city ancient, carved in stone By peoples great of old, Lies just without the glimm’ring scene Of youth and beauty keen. This city long ago was filled  With life, and craftsmen skilled, Who loved fair things, and beauty sought, Cared not they more for aught. They cast up temples, columns grand A thousand years to stand; Great walls with scenes and tales were made To speak beyond their graves. And now, apart from teeming streets Where haste and sparkle pique A curious eye and passing thought, But soon will be forgot, There lies the past, within their reach, Where artist’s heart would beat And paint for loveliness alone, To last ’til world was gone.

When ‘neath a shade of craven dread A land of old now rests her head And dreams of golden times before The darkness hope away had borne; Before the graves more grand became Than homes of living men, and vain Had grown the thoughts of those Set up to govern ones below; When, at long last, beneath the grim And evil cloud that threatens them, There rise again men bold and true, Who pledge to bring the light anew; Shall people not cast off the yoke That thralled their fathers past, who spoke Of days beyond the nightfall dim, And swore the sun would shine again?

In flick’ring light of candle dim, There sits a man; to him, Though yet he knows of no such praise, In future, poets gaze Upon his works with eyes of awe, And marvel how he saw The fairies ‘neath the summer’s moon, ‘Mid plot, and jest, and swoon; Or listen through a door ajar To schemes and witty spars That kingdoms vast could overthrow ‘Ere sun its face would show. Oh how, dear writer in your rags, Should noble bloodline brag To fairest maid of royal court, And should one thus make sport? Or ought the prince speak true and bold To win the heart of gold? And what of treach’rous, twisted deeds, Worked from usurper’s greed, And how the son of fairest reign Ought now a vengeance deign To wreak upon that evil crown Before, in grief, he drowns? All these, and more, from vivid mind, Can any reader find; All penned in fog and candlelight By common man; but bright His heaven of invention goes Through Time’s dark ebb and flow.

A haze of lies has shrouded so The minds of men, with heads hung low, That truth and honor stand despised And mocked beneath the cowards’ cries. How weary, beaten down, and faint, Have grown the ones who guard the gates, As weakest minds of limpest grasp Are slow to learn, to anger fast. But scornful fools, though loud they cry, Must pass, and simple thought must die; And still will stand the people bold, Whose minds were kept from lies of old.