Cease the hunt through starlit peaks and shadowed vales of woe.
Sit by your quiet hearth where the languid embers glow.
There in the silence of a belated breaking dawn
you will find you are the King that thought himself a pawn.

The longing to attain highly esoteric arts
from books and scrolls and papers and sacred natal charts
confounds the sacred vessel, the dreamer's lonely dream,
to prize its precious content above its cloth and seam.

Call off the chase, discard the horns, they are all in vain
glory and identity are shackles forged from pain.
The hunter is the hunted - his cedar bow is drawn;
for freedom he'll shoot a King who thought himself a pawn.