The king of his city might speak of the mountains today in a murmur.
Or perhaps it would be in a loud crack.
He would describe the majestic stillness even in the midst of retreat.
He would speak of his people in a tongue and tone unfamiliar to him.
Perhaps in dull praises or perhaps in tomes and tones
He would speak of his oceans in clear desperation of a power waning
He might say the one whom we call king, of this earth smooth and bare
bear what you bear all that is yours is mine
And he might say of the falling stars, trailing through the sky
might it be by my might that then heavens fall
or is it prayers of those I call my own, to know is to despair
This day, this eventful day when the horizon glows amber
and embers fill the nightly skies, this truthful day
Our king might say – sing to me that song of the long-gone day
When trees bowed and men spoke only the truth
That time passed when the madmen were naught but mad
Our king might lament of a melancholic nay
so he may revel upon the anguish
of power once close.


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