Fate

Men are all puppets, king and knave alike
Fate holds a sword poised in her hand to strike
Men may struggle in vain, 'tis Fate that does the scheming
Wise men waste their breath, and only fools go dreaming
Take all Fate's gifts ere she snatches them away
But build not castles on such rotten clay
Proud kings of old have tampered with Fate's fire
Till it consumed or dragged them in the mire
Some died in battle, old age wore out another
Like tired babes they crept to Earth, their mother
And she in gentle arms buried them deep
Unsung, forgotten, in a dreamless sleep