The hillsides in the sunrise bowed beneath
my gaze - their grasses parting at my stride.
A baying wind would whimper at a wave,
which quelled the ruffled murmurs of the trees.
The waters rose or waned when I gave word,
and at my breath the clouds dissolved to air
or moved aside for days of blazing sun.

Those footprints I had left were scuffed to dust,
when others climbed and sat on stones I’d marked.
They hunted on my lands and gorged themselves
while feasting on the wealth that I had built.

These rivers flood their banks as I decree
to wash their footprints from the dirt I own.
I raise the thunder’s drum beat with a stare;
skies quake before the boots of marching storms.
A coronation for a king returned.