Hyperborea Anew Poem by Rod M.Peters

The lucid rant of the jester
Meeting scorn from the king of old
A crown thrown into the furnace
To forge new shackles of gold.

The Left and Right throngs
Suckling each other's marrows
For the benefit of the "third man"
Awaiting in the shadows.

The children of the tiller man
Plucked away like ripe plums
To the most angry beat
Of a thousand tum-tums.

A pall of white ashes left
Where the green orchard stood
Proud towers topple overnight
Dancers wiggle brash and lewd.

The old Viking gods
Brought to their knees afar
Scorned for their proud bearing
And beheaded with a scimitar.

A dwindling tiny sparkle
That will not be put out
A small miracle in the making
For new bards to sing about.

And the world goes round and round
As a newborn sun shines bland
And tender shoots break undeterred
Through crisp Hyperborean land.