No ballad-lord

The storm begins with the swift-rising Sun

chasing the fast-descending globe of Moon.

Ahead of us, the fiery boars will run

driven, by hunt or hunter, noon to noon,

and the wild cattle sing their own, old, tune.

The hungry vultures have their own refrain:

You have to understand it fast and soon,

and learn all secrets of the coming pain.

Who comes with shadow before time is done 

is master all at once of hawk and loon,

and child of those who marvel at the Sun

but cannot realize that he comes soon.

Faster and faster, in no awkward tune,

but silently, yet in a manner plain

of sequences that free us far too soon,

to learn the secrets of the coming pain.

Those birds that we consume by pound or ton,

forgetting every sweetness of their croon,

are nothing to confront arrogant gun.

But, behind trees, as noble as our Sun,

sounding towards us as curlew or loon,

at end of day, arrive here much too soon, 

as in hard meter, or a solemn tune;

still tell our story in a language plain,

at sunrise, evening, or at highest noon,

yet learn the secrets of the coming pain.

Lady or Mistress, pray grant us this boon:

Ignore our foes, but still allow the tune.

Teach us to hold the line, but not to strain,

award us, rather, with a sweeter croon;

grant us the justice, but not the buffoon,

and learn the secrets of the coming pain.