Flame that Endures
For the Queen who is Poetry, bearing arms against the hollow tongues.
The dust of ages settled, slow and deep,
where fractured sunlight kissed her shadowed sleep.
I watched the Queen – stillness in her grace,
a sovereign beauty in that timeless space.
A weight unspoken held within her gaze,
a promise whispered through forgotten days.
She moved with purpose, calm and resolute,
a warrior’s heart, brilliantly astute.
No idle gesture, no fleeting, hollow plea,
just strength distilled for all the world to see.
“Take,” she murmured, a breath against the air,
a challenge rising – virtue’s silent prayer.
They jeered with hollow words, a fleeting jest,
their careless tongues unweaving what was blessed.
The sacred song, reduced to fractured sound,
a broken echo, scattered on the ground.
Yet from their ruin rose her steady flame,
unyielding truth, too vast for them to claim.
She bore no chains of fashion’s fickle art,
no fractured lines, no irony to start.
Her armor shone with clarity of song,
a cadence pure, where ancient truths belong.
Her eyes defied the emptiness of jest,
and raised the word once more to what is best.
Her smile, serene, the hush of verses bright,
reflected wisdom from an ageless night.
Her voice—no weapon, but a cadence rare,
inviting courage, breathed upon the air.
Not for dominion, nor for hollow fame,
but guarding what endures—a living flame.
The lance of gold, a shimmer in her hand,
a symbol forged within this timeless land.
Not steel, but syllable, sharpened to its aim,
to pierce deception, and expose its shame.
To banish falsehood where the shadows creep,
and rouse the conscience from its shallow sleep.
No army marched behind her, yet I saw
the weight of justice trembling in her law.
Not law of tyrants, fashioned out of fear,
but law of harmony, severe and clear.
Her step resounded, rhythm fierce and true,
a marching hymn the mocking could not undo.
Upon my knees, I yielded to the call,
lost in the grandeur of her potent thrall.
A recognition bloomed within my core –
of battles fought beyond what we explore.
A humble offering, a silent vow,
to stand with justice, somehow, here and now.
And as she rose, a silhouette profound,
I understood the power held unbound—
not of command, nor force’s brutal sway,
but in protection—whispered for today.
Her vow became a mantle, fierce and true,
to rest at last in faithful hands—in you.
By Al Konda
For the Queen who is Poetry, bearing arms against the hollow tongues.
There was a time when poetry carried weight—when it was fire at the heart of a people, not just ornament or clever trick. In much of modern art, I see that fire mocked, scattered, or reduced to fragments. The sacred voice has been broken into irony, banter, and hollow gestures. To me, this is a mockery of what poetry truly is.
I cannot accept that.
This poem is my answer. I imagined Poetry herself as a Queen—majestic, still, yet armed. Not a muse who drifts in beauty alone, but a sovereign who rises in defiance. She carries a flame against the shadows, a lance of syllables to pierce falsehood. Her strength is not born of conquest but of protection: guarding what is true, what endures.
When I wrote Flame that Endures, I was not only praising her; I was kneeling, as one must before something greater than oneself. That act is not surrender—it is recognition. For poetry is older than us all, yet still alive in every line we write, every truth we dare to speak.
I believe poetry is more than a pastime. It is an inheritance, a mantle. And it does not fade unless we allow it.
So here is the Queen, rising again. May you feel her presence in these verses. May you carry her flame forward.
