Stands bare the gaming table, swept of crib’d page
and scattered dice. Our player’s gone
to hills and drowsy vale, snow lidded boscage
or light decked street far from darkest dungeon.
Lost they to study, and quiet inward focus
the best to temper memories vain and foul
through disciplines diverse and modus
known for toning the timbre of one’s soul.
Either righting battles with wooden swords
or outflanking cantors in oelven verse
the players gain insight, moving onward
from desperate end to sagely recourse.
These studies abroad bode well, for ‘neath this pane
of frosted glass a nightmare grows an awful refrain
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