They feuded hard, with blunt and heated words –
The necromancers, sorceresses, wizards:
Who carries might and magic in the world?
Who is a mage in earnest and who isn’t?
The freckled witches – potions galore,
The alchemists – with formulas and beards,
The necromancers testing their lore
Of light and dark, of ecstasy and fear…
The summit passed – no order or decree,
Commotion among the wizzing wizards…
A shooting star appeared, blithe and free, -
It laughed a little, sighed and gently whispered:
“She wins the laurel – ‘Sorceress of Ages’ –
Whose quill creates the wizards, worlds and magic…”
Sonnet number infinity commotion at a magic summit
© Copyright: Маленький Принц, 2014
Свидетельство о публикации №114083000694
Свидетельство о публикации №114083000694
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