Journeying on his holiness.
The whimpering of the last Duchess.
Powerful hands dancing in gaiety.
This grave business I must attend most swiftly.
On that silent hill once seated I.
Straining to catch a glimpse of this gallant isle.
World full of sages yet all are novices.
Mystery unravel, misery torments my chances.
Mother earth heard of their coming.
As their clarion horns keep blaring.
Their advent we see,but it promises no bell.
Shawls of gold only trail at the brim of their hem.
A chance at fame I see,but the land is not at ease.
In vast eternity only their elbow will be greased.
This spattered land mass needs green manure.
To outwit time in it’s fresh pasture.