Oh what a fate! Oh cruel eclipse!
To leave the world at my fingers’ tips.
To give to me a mighty sharpened sword
To let me give an even sharper word?
To give me a yellow paper fan
Held tightly in the palm of my hand.
To give me lumber long and lean
And let me reconstruct my dream.
What power does this instrument hold?
Engraved in emerald, covered in gold.
Mined from crevasses far from the sun
What I do next cannot be undone.
But what pink sapphire sits on end?
My mistakes it seems to mend.
And labeled with its proper name
“Ticonderoga! ” I do proclaim.