The Brothers of the UniverseThree Beings they sit around a great Fire
(That we call the Sun) and its Golden light
Shines on the players of Life's endless Game
And the events that unfold as the chessmen, they fight.
Of the strategists two, the serious one,
We call him Old Father Time,
And the other, the rival, the one we name Fate,
He sits and he plays with a smile.
Between his two brothers, Death sits and waits
With thin hands folded calmly together.
For he has no place in this old Game of Life;
His job lies in what will come after.
The board that they play on is three tiers high,
For the future, the present, the past.
Each move affects one, and then another,
Till only one piece is standing, alone at the last.
The trials of humanity, putting us to the test
Are the results of Time's play or Fate's.
The Great War, the Cold War, the Falling of Rome,
Because of a block played too slowly, or too late.
None of the three could be called friends of ours;
Short-lived gamepieces that we are.
But neither are they enemies to mankind
Though their plans will survive us by far.
Death cares not for kings or princes
Or beggars or generals too.
He follows his orders and calls to his side
Those with whom Time is through.
Time cares not for whining or begging
Or praying or mourning too.
He measures and ponders the debt to be paid
And sends Death to collect when it's due.
Fate cares not for riches or power
Or love or for hatred too.
He plans his game, his match against Time
On the chessboard of me and of you.
But Death can be kind, to the old and the frail
To the ones who have lived and lived well.
And he can be kind to the young and the wilful
Whose lives were cut short, too soon to tell.
And Time can be kind to the patient and careful,
Who are methodical, see no need to hurry.
He can also be kind to the nervous and frightened
Though he pities them a little their flurry and scurry.
Fate plans ahead and tries hard to be kind
Though he does not always succeed.
He disguises his boons with fear and despair
And trusts in mankind to take heed.
The brothers, they play, they ponder and plan
For the future of all that we know.
Ten thousand years hence still there they will sit
To play a Game in the Sun's golden glow.
Poetry by Mklnay
Read 323 times
Written on 2010-10-22 at 11:48
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email