EN
That dragon has already flown, my friends.
A knight has taken his seat.
The kind who wears armor
that hums as he walks…
clanking, ringing, creaking…
When he lies down to sleep,
he always reaches into his pack
for the grease,
to oil his joints at once.
Odd leg, even leg,
then odd hand,
even hand, and the neck.
There, on his shoulders, the full weight
of last summer.
There lies every care,
cast to the ground as he rests;
the earth takes back
all it once gave him,
all that he ruled,
until at last
his gear rusts away.
To ash it burns,
scorching all that is here,
The Sun,
Whose rays are everywhere,
in all and on all.
