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Beau
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Guardians of Their Own Truth
A gypsy with a heart of gold
Has spent the winter sleeping cold,
Knowing the trinkets that he sold
Are lining out the pockets of the Guardians;
And patient, nailed upon his bed,
Abandoned, cold and left for dead
Is grateful even to be fed
A little from the hands of the
Guardians of their own truth;
Soldiers on their own roads;
Players on their own stages;
And Wonders of the World.
Before them all King Midas stood,
His sandals soaked in gold and blood,
Agreeing as indeed he should
His wealth should see the plates of the Guardians.
And all his wealth – the King's delight –
Went disappearing in the night,
The day he lost the will to fight
And cast it in the palms of the
Guardians of their own truth;
Soldiers on their own roads;
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Players on their own stages;
And Wonders of the World.
The tree is groaning even now,
Left spinning still and wondering how
The sap that climbs to every bough
Is salted for the sake of the Guardians.
But in the end when all is dry,
Not only how but also why
Is whispered with a gentle sigh,
The dust blanketing the eye of the
Guardians of their own truth;
Soldiers on their own roads;
Players on their own stages;
And Wonders of the World.
…Guardians of their own truth.
…Soldiers on their own roads.
…Players on their own stages.
…And Wonders of the World.
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