Finis Coronat Opus

Lords and kings in castle halls, Throned within their fortress walls, With their crowns upon their heads And their armies strongly led, Reign in glory known abroad, With such fame as dear is sought. Yet, behind the gilded throne, Who ensures the king is known; Or, in secret, plots the paths That the armies tread at last, Setting lords in grander halls Or sending them in chains, as thralls? Who, then, holds the greatest sway, The kings and lords, or councils grey Whose knowledge reaches through the gleam  Of swords, and crowns, and satin sheen? Do throne and scepter rulers make? Or do the students, grim, of Fate?

Nestled on a window seat, With cup of tea on table neat, Reclines a figure, deep engrossed In pages yellow, torn, and old. Sunlight beams upon the leaves Where printed words are barely seen, But carry such a power vast That decades since have held them fast. The silent figure sits and reads For hours, in the book’s reprieve From hardships constant, dreary, cold, And lives in mind’s adventures bold.

A moment calm, Before the raining torrents fall And stormclouds rise in fearful squall Above the quiet land. A moment calm, When trees stand still as frozen spires That point to fading sun’s red fire Before it drowns in cloud. A moment calm,  When new-sprung grasses seem so green, And budding flowers’ colored sheen Bring brightness to the ground. A moment calm, As storm above rains on dry land, Though loud and fearsome is its hand, There’s beauty in its wake.