• A Father’s Lament



    Upon the ceiling lies delicate filigrees of gold
    Enhancing the paint from an artist’s brush
    Beside me elegant pillars of wood carved from pines of old
    Rise to the height of a man and more, cradling silks with a delicate hush
    Beyond these curtain of ethereal silk
    Drift amber murmurs both rich and grieved
    For upon this bed of royal wealth, I, who was weaned on a queen’s milk,
    Fought in wars, ruled my country, and raised a son, have been deceived.
    Not through the treachery and lies of another have I been betrayed,
    But through my own body. For I, King of my country, grow old.


    Thoughts dance through my head as I await the Reaper.
    Memories of moments past and dreams lost—forgotten.
    One thought rises in my mind, demanding my attention—that of my country's future keeper.
    Oh my son, my precious son. Why is it that only now do I realize that which I did not ken?
    I am King, yes; but I am Father also. How I wish to go back to my young self to depart this
    knowledge I now know.
    Young fool! Arrogant fool! What a fool I was to only feel this weight upon my brow!
    Why did I not feel your tiny weight in my arms or see the love you would so freely show?
    Alas! Alas! I am but an old feeble man, incapable of living anywhere but in the now.
    Oh foolishness of youth! Oh arrogance of kings! Curse you for plaguing my mind!
    What I would not give to be able to tell you, my son, what my old heart feels.


    “God,” I whisper. “Gift to me, this feeble old fool,
    A chance to make this right.
    Let me pass from my son’s life, not as the one who would only rule,
    But the one who, in the dark created from his arrogance, lit a light.”
    I lie in this bed, this cage of royalty, and pray. Slowly my aging, failing ears discover a rhythm
    that quickly approaches.
    The soft, firm tread of a Prince who’s love I used to shun.
    The door to my death chamber creaks as further into my room it encroaches.
    There, in the flickering light of the torches, is the visage of my beloved son.
    “Thank you, Lord,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
    I gaze at the face of my only child and reach out my hand.


    Gently he treads nearer and grasps my hand, softly staring at my face.
    I trace his features with my eyes, from his strong jaw, to his warm, brown eyes—amber with
    flecks of tan.
    “Thank you for coming, my son, thank you for coming here to this place.
    I have much to tell you, much to confess. I am an old, feeble man. I am an old foolish man.
    Alas that I have realized that only now! I was a good king to my people, but I was never a good
    father to my son.
    I felt only the crown upon my head and saw only the gold upon my fingers. I was not there to see your first steps nor guide you through a new world to see.
    I should have been there for all of your life, should have praised you for all that you’ve done.
    But I have not. I am a fool, my son. A sorry fool. I cannot ask you to forgive me,
    But I can tell you what my heart has been crying out for me to say.
    I love you. I love you my child, my son, with all that is in my heart. I love thee.


    I mourn, for you have waited till on my deathbed I lay
    To hear that for which you should need never have waited.
    I love you and I am proud of you. You are no longer a child. You have grown. You can hear the words I say,
    So hear me! Do not allow the crown to rule you! Heed the words I’ve said!
    Continue to display the wisdom and strength of will you have shown
    And do not let the kindness fade from your eyes lest you fall.
    You are worthy, my son. You are worthy of your throne.
    I am fading, my son. I can hear the Reaper’s call.”
    I watch my son, with tears pouring from his eyes, lean close to my ear and whisper.
    I cannot stop the smile of blinding joy from spreading across my face.



    I stand before a throne of wood, carved from pines of old.
    Behind me, nobles and commoners alike kneel in both grief and joy,
    For the priest approaches me as I kneel, carrying a crown of gold.
    In a moment I will cease to be the Prince, the boy.
    I will be King of my father’s country, my father to whom I could finally say,
    “Father, I love you too.”