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The Magician’s Repose

The Magician’s Repose by John Evans


Down hollow ways that bear no title,
Mired in the dust of ages,
There sleeps a ragged wanderer,
Dressed in shades of green.

His crumpled coat and owlish countenance,
Stand creased beneath the crescent stars,
As though he were a lifetime older,
Than his already ancient form.

A cane of birch-wood lies beside him,
Battered beyond all mortal repair,
And on his head rests a patched hat,
The color of blood-stained marble.

It is no wonder he remains so silent,
And heedless of the waking hours,
After traversing his country’s highlands,
Without pause for ease or serenity.

Such a man of bitter winters,
Deserves a span to dream and think.
But I doubt he shall tarry more,
Unaffected by the thriving realm.

Where empires raise their crowning heads,
His best councils sing like patient bards,
And where kingdoms lose their well-earned ire,
There also flickers his fearless name.

In war a friend to all who tremble,
And deem themselves prone to loss,
And in peace a sword to ward off evil,
Goodness seldom routs for long-

He remains a child of virtue,
And a sage of innumerable songs,
The utterance of which advances knowledge,
As well as nobility’s wounded cause.

Should men forget his wretched spirit,
And confine his likeness to churlish tales,
The child in me shall raise his smile,
From the floor of time’s respite.

If memorials to his honest deeds,
Sink through the sands of remembrance,
And prove unknown before love’s folk,
Hate has marred by means of will-

I shall resolve the ferryman’s price,
And voyage humbly to regain,
The relics of that slumbering fool,
Whose wisdom is our nation’s reign.

John’s book, ‘Adam’s Lament’ is available through Oloris Publishing.

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