The Thinker In The Shadows
The prince sits on his throne,
Shrouded in the dark,
The only light that of the faint moon,

He sits, the picture of the philosopher,
Eyes unfocused, deep in thought,

The youngest, the smartest,
But the youngest,
Sitting in the shadows,
Was only natural to him,

But now Fate had played a joke,
And he had been thrust out of the shadows,
Before an audience that criticised his every move,

He was weak,
A poor replacement, they said,
His brother had been a mighty man,
Not like this poor excuse,

They would be silenced,
He vowed it,
He would carve a legacy for himself,
More awesome than that of those strongmen, his ancestors,

In the awe of this might,
Or purely by this might,
Their sharpened tongues would be stilled,

A black line had been seen,
Moving through the lands,
A mighty army,
With a mightier leader,

He would win their master over,
He would be the chisel.

Suddenly the philosopher rises,
And strides out of the dark,
Into the dark.