- The tips of the dawn race across the dark forests
With rare light, unseen after Solomon's day;
The glare softly kissed by a buffering mist
Hastens the last of the darkness away.
The sun staggers higher, glittering brighter,
Climbing the rungs veiled by blankets of cloud.
An era is born as the citizens mourn
A dynasty ended beneath midnight's shroud.
"Our king is no more!" the birds and bells cry,
"This tragic May morning, the Thirteenth was found
Asleep in his bed, heart stillhe is dead!
His son the Fourteenth is soon to be crowned!"
The dauphin, age four, is soon made the king,
Not ruling, but learning the ways of the land.
Despite the French pride and potential inside
He is powerless under his figurehead's hand.
But powerlessness can never bar glory;
The gleam of the sun is not stifled by haze.
Mist melts to the ground and its rain makes a sound
As it brushes gold harp strings: the sun's fiery rays.
So the star blazes through with no wall in its way,
Bathing the planet, its full glory shown.
The torrent of light claims all say and all might
To the king, twenty-three, who now governs alone.
The noon will come shortly; the sun nears its zenith
Blood spills and wars rage for national glory.
The citizens sing of the mighty Sun King
Whose proud tales of victory fill song and story.
But soon the storm clouds swarm in purple and gray;
A painful cost comes when foes are to be slain.
The bank is depleted for nations defeated
And respect for the Sun King is lost in the rain.
Night falls on the mountains like dry leaves in autumn.
The day star finds rest for his weary warm head.
The birds and bells cry as one sound in the sky,
"Louis the Fourteenth, the Sun King, is dead."