Where is the man with the silver horn?
Where now does he trumpet that vast and noble sound?
Gone is he to the dust, and not even echoes to speak
Of that deep and wondrous thing.
Where is the wind that was blowing?
Where now does it howl and rail?
To distant lands without, and now the remainder
Is this quiet, and this stillness.
There is no longer room upon the head
For gilded crowns and lofty ambitions.
The tongue is limp, and throat tired,
Too much to conjure those sage advices and decrees.
Hands once nimble now are still,
Feet once fleeting now are heavy,
And eyes once bright and wide close with heaviness,
Dimming, and dulling, to wane, like all other things wane.
To speak of rebirth. To speak of hope.
To imbue the responsibility in the ashes to produce
That rising Phoenix.
Is it fair at all?
The ashes are a spent thing. The remainder
Of a life long spent and long toiled.
A burning, beautiful life, now fuelless.
Can they still now be expected to produce?
But lo, will you tell me of t