The world is a god with power beyond measure,

and cares not a bit for those on its crust,

without warning brings fire and ruinous weather,

that might in an instant turn me to dust.

I will perish for reasons I cannot divine,

for motives my mind cannot understand.

The world will continue in spite of its crime,

as I flicker and wither and turn back to sand.

The peril and danger may come unforeseen,

for me and for places and people I love.

In guises about which I could never dream,

weapons and curses cast down from above.

Yet what can I do in the face of such might,

but deny this grave weakness and try to believe,

that with stick in hand I can beat back the night,

and protect what I have from gods that besiege.

I know in my heart that my campaign is lost,

and the things that destroy will not deign to see

me in front of my castle with stick held aloft,

and would laugh if they noticed such weakness as me.

But for now I will take my stick from the soil,

and wield it for the sake of all I adore.

For though I be foolish and feckless and frail,

I have no other option than guarding the door.