In an abbey far from here,
up in the mountains touching
clouds, monks pray in silence;
making bread,
making beer.
A garden circles the stones:
and glass, orchards, towers, windy paths, halls and rooms...
extra large oil paintings, tapestries, stories told in candlelight,
farm to table dining, and some wildlife, a pond, the smell of morning, nap-time, and dusk.
A quiet calm pervades
the grounds.
Yet in one corner not far
from there,
a forge fire glowing
hammering, hissing,
and hot.
A lamp is wrought;
commissioned by the King.
A copper base, inlaid with gold
organic life. Somehow scarabs from
the middle East w/ emerald shells
shimmering in the light.
The lamp hath some miracle wick.
The forge hath imbued some
witched trick.
Shaped like the tear,
And a platinum chain.
The lamp has seen many master
slain.
It has come and gone as Ages pass.
It has hung from hearth, in home, on branch,
battle, meal, and lights the dark.
Tomorrow means little to the lamp.
It glows and dims,
like ever the passage of time.
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