by William S.
When gilded towers rise to scrape the sky,
And merchants boast of kingdoms made from gold,
There struts a man whose name resounds on high,
Whose tongue proclaims what flatterers have foretold.
The crowd is stirred by thunder in his speech,
A tempest clothed in crimson, bold, and loud;
Yet truth, like stars beyond the storm’s wide reach,
Shines dim beneath the shadow of the crowd.
The crown he sought was fashioned not by grace,
But restless cries that echoed through the land;
And still he walks, demanding pride a place,
With fate’s uneasy scepter in his hand.
So history writes, in ink both dark and bright:
A prince of noise, yet fleeting as the night.