A Crown of Sonnets: Tales of Shayari

{Drigorem’s Curse}

Not enough for you, the councilor’s seat.
Not for you, little brother, for your eyes
set upon a higher goal. A planned meet
sealed your fate and mine. What price in blood buys
a state? Did you think you could steal the crown?
Fool, I curse you. Fool, I bind you. May your
sins wear your face. Let all see what a clown
you are. Fool, you skewered me like a boar
yet while breath remains I laugh. In your face
I spit curses. I bind you to your fate.
The crown withers and crumbles to dust. Face
it, you’ll never be king. His sword will wait
sheathed in earth ’til one more worthy arises
Yes, ’til one more worthy than you arises…

{Death of a King}

Yes, ’til one more worthy than you arises…
You killed the king, our brother, what vile acts
do you now contemplate? Is my demise
next? My place usurped by an evil pact?
Brother please, cease this treachery right now
before your greed tears our country apart.
Knife me in the back–you cowardly sow.
Two brothers you’ve slain, one a king, departs,
the other his trusted champion falls.
What more does your greed demand? To your hand
my blade will not go. Our forefather calls
and I, to his home, must fly on bloody
wings that bear me hence, away to the key…

{Beyond the Mortal Veil}

Wings that bear me hence, away to the key,
a strip of beach just this side of death, where
all souls wait for ships to bear them to sea.
Across the last ocean, where night makes its lair.
Even the sun finds rest amid ancient
towers, angelic bowers and flowers.
To Eversong, the Night Island, I’m sent.
My last journey begins. My slain brother,
my king, at my side. One last glance we bear
you through the mortal veil. We see defeat,
your hand burned, charred to a bone claw, a rare
sight, rejected by a thing you can’t beat.
A sword called Legacy, that none can best.
A sword you can’t wrest; in pieces it rests…

{Legacy’s Rise: A Prophesy}

A sword you can’t wrest; in pieces it rests…
That sword called Legacy. Rather than be
mastered by the usurper, that vile pest,
it shattered into a twelve squared shards to flee
the hands that sought its mastery. Its power
diluted but not broken, sleeps till one
worthy of it comes. One born from a line
cursed and reviled, in whose heart holds none
of his forefather’s greed. Through him the fine
will be paid and his family redeemed.
Before his kin Legacy reunites,
a country heals. In his hand the sword gleamed.
Joy it incites, a new king is in sight.
Enough for the bearer, the council seats.
No kingship for him, from that, he retreats.

—

These sonnets are about the death of Shayari’s last king. The events referenced by the bard are also recorded  in a fragment of a historical  account of that event. A transcript of the surviving fragment is available here. It has been translated from Old Shayarin to the modern tongue for the reader’s convenience.