If I Were a Poet

“Call the minstrels,”
cried the King,
“And sing of lost love,
that I can rejoice in others’ pain.”

“Send a decree throughout the land,
that every tree will bow,
and every grain of sand will groan under the weight of my words.”

“Prepare the chariots,
horses, armor, weapons, food,
and let us cross the mountains
to conquer the distant lands.”

“And when we return,
write our story so that it will be retold through all generations:
Life is a hollow race
from each milestone to the next,
until death interrupts the game.”