There once was
a sage
with a sage's white beard
and a sage's flowing robe
who shunned royal titles
and the life of palace
so no rubies were braided in his beard
but dandelions, and dewdrops
as he would rather gaze at the night sky
from the wildest mountain creeks
his eye was sharp
and sharper was his mind
and one fateful night he strung together
with thin thread of pure will
every star in the firmament
- and not half a dozen into a silly constellation
like palace astronomers do
("those are Suns and not apples"
he would say disdainful)
a most beautiful image he had thus conjured
in a peak far north
slowly gyrating like a Dervish in the snow
to encompass the celestial vault
ten thousand stars embroidered in the night
that tell all there is
alas
when he tried to reveal
his vision
he realized no one else
could make sense
of the glistening tapestry hanging in the sky
"Scorpius is but the spearhead of Treason"
he would explain
"and Sirius burns brightest for it is the centre of Love…"
at which point no one would listen anymore
for Kings and commoners alike
are fearful of the Truth
