Luck

Turn a mirror on itself
And draw your focus to a point.
A soundless endless echo
Which vanishes from sight.
 
And so we lift them from their hills
And pack them in their pen
These living single summers
Single summers without end.
 
See the noble and the haughty
Amongst the rabble and the dregs
The blue blood of the princess
Beside the bent and bowdy legged.
 
So will you take my luck sir?
I have a polished penny here
Polished by our lifetimes
Polished by our fear.