The Lord of looming Anemone,
Where he sits in halls of gold,
Lost in rubies, encased in stone,
Haut, the Lord of Anemone,
With the repulsive allure of confidence overgrown,
Claws sharp, sympathy sold,
There he'll sit till the world is old,
With no flame to brace the cold,
Only a place on the minor throne.
Do not come with your complaint,
It is known the dice have weights,
All the countryside has been rolled,
So pick your silver, rest your soul,
Near the palace, do not go.
When you kneel yourself to pray,
I pray thee ask not to be prey,
We are beetles with no say,
The toys with which the Lions play.
Previous: Cathedral Bells
Next: A Flock