Their eyes, like fiery seraphim, lift
dispersing the mists of a thousand burdens
the world was never meant to bear.
Their arms, graced with scepter in hand, raise high
This rule is their inheritance
This vast unwieldy world their meekness owns
How small a thing it is after all
to choose freedom, to demand it
For all things broken and unjustly veiled
must swoon to their command.
Not a word, but a battle, yes, a war, is at hand.
But theirs is the right
Theirs is the rule
To reign is here, right here, for the choosing.