Noble warrior of the morn,
Shining armor and plumed helm
Marching to meet his destiny,
Shimmering sword in hand,
Born to conquer.
How I envy you, oh knight.
Your courage, your charisma.
How the world fawns upon you
As you mount your mighty steed.
How ladies must desire your manly presence,
How other men must fear and respect your strength.
But me, my power was made more subtle,
The lofty but unseen gifts of mind.
I am the wizard who all shun.
I have not the princely gifts of charisma
That you bear but my power is ultimately greater than yours.
You are the fleet young man with imposing posture;
I am the hunchbacked old-man whose gait is slow but unerring.
But your gallop shall one day falter,
And perhaps I shall overtake you in the end.
For you may be the flame which burns with passion
And incinerates all that would stand in your way.
But I am the cold earth which shall withstand the trodding of men's feet
Long after your flame has died.
Perhaps in the end we will each have received an equitable share.
George Chadderdon © 1991