[MR] Poem about His Grace Duke Sir Morghun

[Julie Bright]

Forwarded from the AEthelmearc list.  Too good not to share.
Morgaine of Donegal

--- In sca-aethelmearc at yahoogroups.com, "Michael B. Greenstein"
<greenstein at ...>
wrote:

Greetings from Michael Alewright.  I mourn the loss of one of my first two
Royal patrons: I had the honor of being his, and Her Grace Meirwen's, Sylvan
Bard during their second reign over our Sylvan Kingdom, seven years ago.
Little in my life has changed it more profoundly.  In partial payment of my
debt of art, I offer this to his memory for whatever small comfort it may
bring.

There is a tale that none should know, nor ever should be spoken,
That echoes often in unwilling ears;
That slyly sings of theft of all we love, to leave us broken
With little left to offer, save for tears.

How bitter are the ancient words, refreshed each reddened dawn,
New-writ in dust, to read in weathered stone,
Proclaiming unto all that something marvelous is gone;
And someone weeps, who should not be alone.

Lost in blinding newborn depths of grief, with wails we pay
For every merry song that claimed a voice,
And seek, in mem'ry's faded treasure, vengefully to slay
The truth, that we might someday more rejoice.

We live, we die: there is the tale.  The end comes far too soon;
One shaken breath tells all there is to hear.
Come chance, come choice or fading flesh, and fragile clay is hewn
To join the rest who fall, and disappear.

But what of this?  If so it be, that each must leave his dwelling,
To go wherever waits the honored dead,
That tragic tale has never needed human lips for telling;
So let us speak of other things, instead.

Here stood a man of middle years, his frame yet hale and tall,
Who lived his days as seemed to please him best,
Who wore a blade-won crown and held two kingdoms in his thrall,
And often valued labor, over rest.

He had his flaws; erase them not, but leave him as we knew:
A well-met friend rough-edged, but also kind,
Who planned and built, who ever served, and earned the love of two
He would have wept in shame to leave behind.

So let us weep as he cannot, and taste the air we breathe,
And raise a glass to toast an absent friend,
And offer comfort, scant but true, to those who most must grieve
And never judge his story by its end.

And let us live!  In us, the tale is not yet fully told,
And life, like scotch, is meant to be imbibed.
With sword or pen or threaded needle: write with what you hold,
And meet your end with chapters yet unscribed.

And sometimes pause, and think of Morguhn, you who knew his light,
For life can offer just one guarantee.
Until that day, we seek the grace to gaze upon the sight
His eyes (we pray) are blessed enough to see.


- Michael