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The Prince Of Dorna Nost

I wrote this poem in January of 2025, but, in light of the recent slew of horrors hitting this weary planet, I decided to turn it into a more engaging medium and share it with you. The poem is narrated in its entirety in the video. It includes the text in the form of scrolling paragraphs, but the full text can also be found here: The Prince Of Dorna Nost When legends are forgotten And myths have passed from time, When heroes have grown rotten And spoiled the once sublime, When darkness swallows day And light is all but lost, Then his name shall we pray: The Prince of Dorna Nost. The twilight is his train. The night flows in his beard. He brings a bitter rain Whene'er he leaves the wyrd, For fire cannot fight fire Nor cold assuage the cold, But Dorna Nost's great ire Is something far more old. The prince's hands are mighty. The prince's hands are cursed. His scars will tell you rightly The woes he has rehearsed. Thus, when our hope is waning, When hearts have turned to hide, When cowardice is staining And truth no longer tried, Then harsh shall be his healing And grim shall be his voice Because we loved concealing. We said there was no choice. Great Dorna Nost will reckon. Its prince will heed the call, But the rescue that we beckon Will be greater than our fall. The prince will come with thunder. The prince will come with death. He'll cleanse us of our blunders With every waking breath. His right hand carries power, His left hand carries pain, And his embrace will shower Until the world has no more stain. That day, the dawn will rise, The golden beams will fly, But we will curse our eyes For the image they descry. The gnashing teeth will ring Across the barren land, And only crows will sing For the feast that fate had planned. The prince of Dorna Nost Will bow his weary head, For he must count the cost Of every life he shed. Yet quiet will he leave: No pomp or circumstance. And we will be bereaved Despite our stubborn stance. The ground will drink the blood. The trees will swallow screams. From red to brown will turn the mud: Nightmares replaced with dreams. It's then that grandsons will forget The horrors of their past. For we are not wont to beget Virtues that will last. Soon will come the woeful day When great grandsons love vice, And childrens' childrens' children pay The never ending price. N. M. Rudolph - 1/24/2025