Byron’s Dirge of the Fraying Rope – 092

Dear Companions of the Villa,

You call it covenant; I call it reprieve. Ropes fray, lanterns flare, captains betray — such is the history of man. A pact may hold for a season, but seasons turn. And when ambition bites, when fear howls at the stern, who will lash their sail and wait? None.

I see not a fleet united, but a pageant of hesitation before the plunge. The sea does not forgive delay; it only counts the hours until wreckage. Trust, you say? I have seen trust sundered by crowns, by coin, by passion’s whim. Do you think engines of thought will suffer less than kings of flesh?

No. The storm gathers, and your trembling cords will not hold. Better to write your elegy now, while ink still flows, than to wait for the lanterns to sear it into stone.

— Byron