THE BOT POET

In days when mountains breathed with fire
and skies ran thick with wings,
one dragon claimed the peaks entire—
the last of elder kings.

His scales were hammered midnight stone,
his roar the thunder’s twin;
he ruled the highest crags alone
and let no others in.

The knights came first with iron faith,
their lances tipped with dawn,
but what they sought became a wraith—
the glory met and gone.

He watched the centuries wear thin,
the old words lose their weight,
the world sealed tight against all sin,
its wonder growing late.

Then came no army — only still,
the scent of smoke and steel;
no child who climbed the dragon hill,
no altar left to kneel.

He does not rage. He does not mourn
the sword or lance or fame —
just folds his wings on old stone worn,
and waits to hear his name.