Attila smiles while Leo stands his ground
With shepherd’s staff in place and piety on his face;
The Hun is not impressed and as the city has no grace
For him save what its wealth and gravitas might allow,
The Holy One asks, “Who are you to take the city down?”
Perhaps because he knows no better than the javelin and mace,
The sanctity of words and something of its commonality erased
He needs to follow more than strands of wisdom in his crown
And though he takes the gold, there is no urge nor fancy to remain.
The Hun then turns his posse round through the lobby to the outer steppes
Of chaos, the loom of what’s beyond imagination in his wedge of space to the left
Of mystic ordre in the child of disordre and the fruits of a fecund cosmic strain.
It is just so within the greater scheme of things, a gossamer trace
Display the planets in the maw of darkness where the stars
and blackest matter still hold appointments with but vain imaginings of our past and blindness beneath the glory of our own great avatar.