I will be Prince when Autumn comes.
A rusted diadem will fall upon me when the world turns brown.
And when the wind gets colder and the older things decay
I will be crowned with the tired sound of falling rain.
And I will set the house I build deep within the field
of the harvest, thick as snow, where the measure of the yield
Is counted by some long-forgotten straight-and-narrow way
that I tried to find- year, after year, after day.
And they will raise a banner for me,
A brilliant banner made of gold, Or maybe just a white flag-
At the end, I doubt I’ll know where they ever really went to,
Or if there were ever kings of old that once ruled the golden field-
Or if it was another story I was sold.
But if they still crown me prince at the equinox height,
May I guard all the Kingdom of Twilight ‘til I,
At the end of the age, in some halcyon sepulcher lay
In slumber, and slowly… ever slowly, wait.