The Charger rides out upon a cusp of history’s advance
with zeal that flashes in his hand,
brandishing our great weapon of destiny
that had earlier been forged
upon the anvil of progress.
He’s duty-bound on pushing the envelope of change
through yonder canyon of chaos, or mountain of
justice, whichever comes forth first.
His steed, chomping at the bit to yank upon the seams
of troublous times,
rips out the evil twins of lethargy and lies, and
by opposing ends them
for a while.
Yon Paxateer, on the other hand,
is methodical and principled.
He summons forth coalitions of belief,
taming methods of madness,
crossing rivers of patient sadness.
His armature has accumulated in the crucible of time
from the residue of our Charger’s blood,
and the aggregate left behind when women toil
and men do sweat
for all the progress mankind can get,
although we are not there
if ever shall we be.
Together, between them,
among them and in spite of them,
the wisdom of the ages settles in,
if there is such a thing.
For history is not yet written,
nor the evils that beset men smitten
until the sands of time
are deposited on this body of mine