Gondor calls for aid

  if you saw the white spires blackened with ash
   the chiseled walls crumbling like bread
                   would you run with the horses who turned back
              from the flames, licking the stone like dogs?

         
    do you hide your faces when the tears flow,
        wipe burlap across cheeks of scars and sun;
                  forgetting the time toiled for a life worth living
     incensed into believing you cannot win,
            you cannot bend -

                           she said, there's an old man sitting on the throne
                waiting for the next challenge
                    hoping for the next man to walk the steps
            an orchestrated hell awaiting him

                                           he did not count on her.

                the whispers of a queen, estranged
                         noise surrounded her name, bemused at her presence
            but the word was that she was coming
               wanting to accept the challenge -

                                 the throne that carried the old man chuckled
                         buckling under the weight of his patriarchy
                                ready for a new light
                             praying for a new way;

    the masses were silent
    the bated breath of revolt resting on the laurels of a woman

               and the old man advised she was mean
               and the old man advised she was not fit to speak
 
                                   and the woman requested a duel.

               the name of the knights that watched that day
        were erased by themselves,
                    shamed that they had been blind
                 embarrassed that they had let a fool lead them astray

        for the walls were black, tarnished with the hearts
            of the many and the tears of the few
                       who had waited for a change
               who had been left behind in the rush of madman

                             the sword that pierces the skin
                    is the one that speaks the volumes a tongue cannot
                           and if both are cut at the same time
                                   the root of a thousand words springs forth
                  for the people to sing with

                                   for had he not told her
                                       to know her place,
                               perhaps she would have not sought him
                  perhaps she would not have gone straight to the castle

                                         be made a queen.

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