~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Of late, my Lord,
I have cause to know
what
it might mean to be mortal.
In joy and
sorrow
I have come to understand
the Gift of Men.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A Prince
we have named him,
clothing him
in raiment
like to the Elder days.
Pearls of fair ivory
adorn his tunic,
gems,
blue as Mirrormere,
shine
upon the very hem
of his coat.
About his neck,
where lately dwelt evil,
pigeon-blood rubies,
bound by starr'd mithril,
depend.
Is it with such
weak finery
we honour him,
my Lord?
Is it with such poor stuff
we commend
his sacrifice,
this.......
Prince
of the West?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Pale, like a grey-clad
Sea,
the light which falls
softly
about him.
Sorrowfully,
it has not the strength
you had hoped,
my Lord.
It fades.
He fades.
Beneath the burden
of bitter-found
truth,
beneath the harsh
resonance
of remember'd
desire and sharp-toothed regret,
he fades,
the small
moments
of his life
fleeing
towards
a lonely ending.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
And shall he die,
thus,
my Lord,
this small one
who has given
and been
and borne
so much?
Are we shamedly
content
to farewell
him
so?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
By your leave, my Lord.
There is but one
small portion
of that which I was
remaining,
one gift I might
yet bestow.
By your leave, my Lord.
By......your......leave.
In this,
the wondrous summer of
our hope fulfilled,
in this,
my own autumn,
I implore you:
grant that
he should
know
himself rightly,
cleansed and whole.
Upon a deserving brow
bind the signet of life,
unblemished.
Let him depart
from grey sorrow
in my place.
All this,
with my mortal heart,
I entreat you,
I enjoin you, my Lord:
make of him a
Prince,
A prince
of the Uttermost
West.
