Thud

I met a scattered people of a forgotten king,
They told me, "Veiled upon the valleys and peaks,
upon the mantled sun there lies a sting,
the palisade where we, held to serve,
And in which our master's name did ring,
we felt a pang, a dreadful cold, hitherto felt before or since.
Its grip loosing the memory of his name on the wing,
Monochrome, that drawing scene gone, we left the fence,
with our freedom won and upon a swing."

I told them, "My eyes are blind but I can see,
it's always starless and Bible black to me.
The man you speak of and know,
is no palatine but a thud from millenia ago
whose lies are as fierce as the sun and endless as spurned threads in a hand stowed.
However, as a people you speak true, divided and kingless
the thread would know too
that cold and black is the seed of the devil which you caress.

Therefore no freedom is won for you, no funeral pyre for your dead
You are shadows upon time, the ashes of scattered men,
and life has removed you from its book instead.
Both under the hill and upon the heel
for guilt is a pang, and joy is a wind.
Leave and become their myrmidon, taste what it feels
to submit to their sword, as it is a life of penance that you win and lend.
For freedom is a symphony,
conducted by players that serve and behold,
the beautiful order of tranquility.