Finis Coronat Opus

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.

In throne room grand there stands a page, In summ’ring youth, and fair of face, Before his liege lord’s wavering hand  That now holds sway o’er ancient land. This steward old has grown, and frail His mind and body near the vale Of shadow, not alone of death, But reason dim, and hope bereft. In deepening darkness, near the throne, The page begins, in solemn tones, A song his people used to sing In meager times of suffering. To his young mind, the lay suits ill The grandeur of the hall, now still; But simplest words can oft be wise, And stir to life the dullest eyes.