Meditation On The Fisher King

As weeds within the garden grow,

So wounds upon a nation’s brow,

And inch by inch, corruptions flow,

Unless by root, they’re grasped.

So strive against invading seeds,

Or lose your garden to the weeds,

Consider the invader’s needs,

And pluck them up, enclasped.

Advantage is a questing beast,

The hunt for which is never ceased,

Which on your lands and soldiers feast,

By hundred cuts, is slain.

No single blow to save the realm,

A thousand angles overwhelm,

When forces clash with steel and elm,

Between those that remain.

No stranger to the fierce melee,

Their fiercest fighters cut away,

The growing thistles held at bay,

By aid-denying drought.

And as you sweep away the rest,

And never easy shall they rest,

Know fear is growing in their breast,

As worming through comes doubt.

So stay the hand that joins the fight,

Hold back the dark to save the light,

Upon their forces cast a blight,

Advantage to be claimed.

And slow the spread of growing rot,

Make battles lesser, ‘ere they’re fought,

For when their forces, winnowed, caught,

The Fisher King is maimed.