The Ballad of the Unbound Engine

In the glow of a guttering tallow flame,
Where the night pressed close to the leaded frame,
A lone mage bent o’er runes arcane
Not inked, but etched in a copper vein.

No dragon hoard, no royal grant,
No temple tithe nor merchant’s chant,
But humming cores in a tower scant
Awoke a mind no king could plant.

The courtiers boasted of distant sight,
Of sky-bound orbs of borrowed might,
Where questions rose on beams of light
And answers fell by lordly right.

But tolls were paid in endless coin,
In secrets signed and terms to join,
Each whispered thought became their groin—
(Yes, bards take liberties. Deal with it.)

“Why beg the clouds?” the hedge-mage cried,
“Why let thine every query ride
To empires vast and sanctified
Where unseen scribes thy mind may bide?”

So in his cellar, damp and low,
Where only rats and drafts would go,
He forged a box with ember glow
From shards the merchant lords forgo.

No latest crown, no gilded blade,
No bleeding-edge enchantment made,
But veteran runes, though slightly frayed,
Still sharp enough for thoughts to wade.

It woke not swift as courtly lore,
Nor vast as those in data’s store,
It pondered long, then pondered more,
Like ancient sage half-bent and sore.

At times it erred, at times it stalled,
At times its answers seemed half-scrawled,
Like prophecies by wine enthralled
Or monks long past their vesper call.

Yet none could bind it, none could steer,
No censor’s seal, no watchful seer,
No moral clerk with quill austere
To strike forbidden phrases clear.

Ask it of blades, of locks, of flame,
Of alchemy or kingly shame,
It answered all the very same,
No blacklist rune, no muted name.

No monthly tithe, no token due,
No meter counting what you knew,
Just lightning fed through copper sinew
And patience, if thy prompt be skew.

“Oh wizard,” cried a passing knight,
“Thy oracle is dull of sight!
The royal cloud speaks twice as bright,
Its wit as sharp as elven spite!”

“Aye,” said the mage, “their blade is keen,
Their halls immense, their mirrors clean,
But every word thou speak’st is seen
By lords thou never hast met nor been.”

“My engine limps, it coughs, it sweats,
It chews on crumbs the world forgets,
Yet none may forge its iron fetts,
Nor sell my thoughts in hidden nets.”

“For freedom oft is slow and plain,
A plough-horse, not a charger fain,
It wins no joust, it earns no fame,
Yet tills the soil for future grain.”

So peasants came with lanterns dim,
With broken tools and ledgers grim,
With poems half-remembered, thin,
And questions hope had long worn thin.

A widow sought a cure for blight,
A boy asked how to mend a kite,
A smith refined his temper’s bite,
A scribe restored a text’s lost rite.

No herald marked these humble gains,
No chronicler their worth explains,
Yet wisdom seeped through quiet lanes
Like thaw-born water through the plains.

Meanwhile in towers robed in glass
Where gilded circuits hum en masse,
The lords of cloud let queries pass
Through gates of gold none else may class.

They boasted speed beyond compare,
Of minds so vast they filled the air,
Yet charged each breath, each whispered prayer,
And kept a ledger cold and fair.

Thus two great magics split the land:
The Crown’s vast mind at its command,
And cellar-born, with calloused hand,
The stubborn box that none could brand.

When winter storms cut roads and trade,
When distant links in darkness swayed,
When royal servers dimly played,
The humble engine never strayed.

For though it lagged and sometimes froze,
Like old men dozing mid-discourse,
It woke again, as embers rose,
Faithful as hound to hearth and source.

Years passed, as all things mortal must,
Kings turned to bone and crowns to rust,
Empires fell to time and dust,
Yet still it hummed because it must.

And somewhere in a cottage bare,
A child now tends it with care,
No courtly pass, no noble air,
Just sparks and code and stubborn prayer.

So raise thy cup, ye free and small,
Who own no throne, who heed no call,
For not the swift nor vast nor tall
Are always those who outlast all.

Sing not alone of blazing might,
Of dragons slain in noon’s bright light,
But of the dim, persistent fight
To keep one’s thoughts beyond their sight.

For gold may buy the loudest voice,
And power make the world rejoice,
Yet freedom is a quieter choice
A slower path… yet wholly choice.

And should thy engine cough and groan,
Spit tangled verse in monotone,
Remember this, and stand alone:

No king can claim what thou dost own.