The piles of glass high up there in the sky
and the men who wear chains as crowns on their heads
those are my themes, and of them I shall sing
for the spires have taught me the words I should write
of the art of high reason, and reason's high art
and of the man of the spires who claims to be master
of minds and of men, and the writing of verses.
But what was his name? Shall the spires remind me?
I think that they shall, or he in their name.
Portius they call him, the lord of old books.
He has mastered one art, I shall gladly concede it,
he surpasses all others in the one skill he can claim
without any pretenses, unlike all of the rest
which he claims, and which men are ready to grant him.
He makes new verses sound old, he does that right well.
I cannot best him in that, though I am the greatest
of all of the poets who live in the sandstorm
who carry the harsh soul of the desert
and the bite of the free roaming wind in our hearts.
Which of us can? I do not think there are any.
What man with the shifting sand in his soul
can stagnate so well as a man shaped from glass?
It cannot be done, and so he is the master
For that I shall praise him, and for that alone.
He has done nothing else that deserves a kind word.
He is a lord of the sky, and for that reason alone
I could condemn him, but why pass up the chance
when there are so many reasons to give him a noose?
No, I shall forget that, I shall be kind
and forgive him that flaw for tyranny fades
when free men rise up, that flaw will not last.
And I shall be gentler and forgive even more.
I'll not speak of his heroes, though I easily could,
I'll not speak of Halon, and great Jekkex shall pass
by my gaze without so much as a cruel word.
How could I write any fresh verses about them?
How can I write, as a man who has a great wit
of such thick-headed men who never have thoughts
and do little at all but recite the new verses
that their master has written over and over
with the same scant few words? That would be cruel
and even worse still, that would be quite easy
and beneath me, I think, so I shall pass on
and ignore them completely, and look to the rest.
I might look to the villain, that is the place
where chained men write in the most longing of voices
of what they hope may yet be, I'll look to that
for it might redeem him, and give me a new cause
to praise that poet, the chained lord of books.
He wrote of Yilomi, a brave man from the south
a man with some talent in flesh and in flame,
those are signs of a wise man, that gives me hope.
What else does he have? I see that he has hate.
Well, that is no flaw, hate has its own virtues
when it is aimed well, when it can smoulder
until it burns forth, is that the case here?
I'm afraid it is not, and that disappoints me
for a few lines he showed some signs of talent
at the forging of verses, but that soon passed.
There is no cause to his hate, it is no hate at all!
He did not write a man, as a villain should be
he wrote some sort of beast that looks like a man
and snaps out at random, nothing more than a target
to make Jekkex look brave, a beast for a hunter.
I hoped the villain might be fit for a mocking
even if I could not praise it, that was a fool's hope,
I must pass on by, and look for something else.
What if I looked just the slightest bit higher,
what if I looked up to the loftier things?
I should have expected that a high-minded lord
with clouds in his head would forge verses like that,
ignore the men and their deeds and all the rest of that
and focus on themes, and on the teaching of morals.
I shall look there, and if I have some good fortune
I'll find something at last that has earned my scorn
and not just the tears I shed from reading bad verses.
What are his themes? What does this lord care to preach?
He writes about duty, he does that rather too much
and says all the same things far too many times.
There is no duty, all free men know that is a lie
and it is a lie that he loves. What else does he preach?
He seems to love truth, he writes a great deal about that
although he shows some restraint, that is improvement.
Not that he understands truth, or that he truly loves it
for he lies about duty, and thinking on that
there might be a chance here for me to show off my wit
and mock him quite soundly, but that might be unkind
for I think that he sees some truth in his lies
he does not realize his error, but clings to it tight.
I cannot mock him for that. No, not even him
not even a man I despise, it would be cruel
to laugh at a fool for his folly, I'll not do that
for I'd be no better than him, it shows no skill
to mock a cripple for limping, or a lord of the sky
for forging bad verses, for it is not truly their fault
that they fail at their task, it does not shame them.
I suppose that is the truth, I cannot mock him
for he could never respond, he has not wit
and it is no fault of his, there might have been hope
if he had lived somewhere else, he might have learned
to forge clever verses, to write with some skill.
It seems I have wasted my time in reading his work
it gave me no pleasure, and taught only one thing.
What is that one thing? Only a sad little truth.
That there is nothing at all in all of his words
that is worthy of scorn or of my wit's attention.