In the beginning, there was Might,
Who swept the plains with his great hand,
Laid low all who rose – forced them to bow,
With a foot on the neck,
Of his destiny: grand.

Fire was his blood, and fury his cloak.
As blood was his tribute,
But in gold, he did soak,
To scrub away his days.

He tired of his lot,
Grew bored of his bed,
So the new must be sought,
To quench the inferno;
That raged in his head.

Mother nature thus felt his wrath,
He swung wide, and with power,
So mountains were felled,
With each swing of his hammer.

Her children and form were counted,
Kept as trophy to adorn,
His halls and keep,
Fit for a conqueror who’d left,
Only the sky to mourn.

Atop the world he strode,
Left ravenous by his meal,
Disdainful of his new abode,
His finely fitted; gilded cage.

Faster than the spoils were won,
He burned them all with glee,
He smashed and shattered every stone,
To hear the din just one last time,
His beloved melody.

There’s power in those walls,
With rage and love to match,
From which every lord and soldier rolls,
A fragment in their hand.

His altar is a window,
Into the hearts of lofty men,
Or any seeking more,
By blade or brawl,
You’ll know him, only then.