The Borrowed Crown

The crown borrows a broom from dawn.

When lords parade with banners high, and flatterers sing beneath their towers,
The realm may deem their splendid boasts as gifts from heaven’s generous powers.
They carve their names through public praise, they chase the poet’s golden pen,
They call their vanity a virtue and seek applause from mortal men.
Yet seasons judge the grandest claims, and time reveals the borrowed throne;
The humble truth shall sweep away the pride that rulers call their own.

The crown borrows a broom from dawn.

The courtiers laugh at honest tongues, while painted tales ascend the hall;
They crown ambition with a wreath, then wonder when the wreath shall fall.
The broom once seemed a servant’s tool, a mark of common daily toil;
Now it becomes a symbol bright, exposing those who feast on spoil.
The mighty learn that honor fades when purchased praise has lost its charm;
A nation’s soul survives through truth, through courage, mercy, noble calm.

The crown borrows a broom from dawn.

At last, the saying turns within, from royal halls to every breast;
Each soul that claims eternal fame must meet the same impartial test.
The broom becomes a friend of grace, a guide toward modesty and care;
It sweeps away the masks of pride, revealing hearts prepared to share.
So, laugh, my friends, at pompous dreams, and cherish wisdom’s lasting song;
For every ruler, sage, and fool belongs to time, where all belong.
The crown borrows a broom from dawn.