Each of Their Gold

The poet, with his pen of gold, Writes his stories gone untold. His rhymes continue to grow old, Left by fires long grown cold. The archer, with his golden bow, Frees his arrows as they flow; On and on and on they go, Farther than you ever know. The soldier, then with weapon drawn, Holds golden sword from before dawn, And seeing a life almost gone, He does not fall, no, he fights on. The singer, next, holds a special tune, Singing words of gold underneath the moon. Her sweet, saddened sound, lovely as June, Is sent off to the winds, is all around strewn. They go along, each with their gold. It’s something they have, something they hold. None are more wise, none are more bold. Then those that hold dear that which they make gold.