Four hundred and eighty full moons bright,
Shine..the never-light and ever-night,
making light of poor men’s plight,
poverty and wealth aren’t a birth right.
A clansman must’ve raised a fight,
another perished of fright,
while the third took swift flight.

I write in contrite,
the poem granting me respite.
The embers of ambition ignite,
defeats and triumphs unite,
Keys to wisdom, the holy site.

Revive thy sight,
Restore thy bite,
Release thy might,
Prodigal son, the ladies’ knight
in shining white,
The clansman who rose to fight.