Queens lead. They beckon, and
armies follow streamers of gold.
Players perform those stories
inspired by dreamers of old.
Kings fear the bold jesters in red,
the pages said, soliloquy told,
imprinted upon parchment,
pictures embroidered in the margins;
rich tints of ink. These things
once scribed by the literate
and the divine provide no mistakes.
Their faces lost to time,
but their places found in words, and
when read, are heard.
History's greatest mysteries are long gone,
now, beyond our comprehensible limit
of letters-- such grounded in millenniums
of letters sealed by wax.
Language tangles and changes
and feelings-- even of the individual--
are all we have. Love and hate
(the only eternal and innate)
remain strangely indefinable, even though
it's been a while; many dozens of centuries.
And regardless, still, how we try
with song or story
we could never truly answer