The White King and the Black

The White King sate on his throne,
  around him good company;
but he dwelled on another one,
  who would not let his heart be free.
Take heed, for it shall be shown
  whom that other wight could be.

Far deep in the frozen south
  where wind and snow bite hard,
like fangs of a wild boar's mouth,
  yet leave a man unscarred,
there lived a people uncouth
  whom the world's peace had marred.

This race was not inhuman,
  at least not in flesh nor form,
but lived by ways uncommon:
  they were swift to raise an arm
on friend as well as foeman,
  thrilled to offend or harm.

These queer folk had a leader,
  he was known as the Black King,
although his kingdom was whiter
  than even the downy swan's wing.
Be assured, he was bent on slaughter,
  and less of a man than a thing,

a thing that with spear or axe          
  would slay like a machine,
his heart as lifeless as wax,
  naught but cogs and wheels within;
and with that breath at your backs
  a chill crawls under the skin.

On such the White King pondered.
  As he tired, his grim thoughts strayed.
He fell asleep, and he wandered,
  in a dream, through a masquerade,
where all looked upon him, and wondered
  which side of the board he played.




9.21.13