In response to the call for what we wish to see in the next tournament, I opted for the abstract.
A being to bloom in old fertile fields,
and bear those fruits born from toil
and oh the fruits this forgotten place yields
and yielded from this ageless, lost soil.
These gentle flowers to see the sun’s light,
And caressed in autumn’s soft rain.
To grow all the more into such a sight
to break through life’s arduous strain.
History hath brought us poets so divine,
their words as wind chimes or birdsong be,
And as the glistening sea doth often shine
Some words of beauty I should like to see.
For though I often find myself lacking,
Falling much too short of the Kings of old;
Here stands winter’s harvest, stacking
ripe fruits with stories to be told.