The board lies still—eight ranks, eight files,
Each square a world, a thousand trials.
Its checkered face, both calm and cruel,
Waits quietly to play the fool.
The stage is set, the players stare,
Each move a hope, each glance a dare.
They chase the crown, a fleeting throne,
Yet play this game so not alone.
The pawns march on with hearts held tight,
Blind to edges of wrong and right.
The knights vault over doubts and ties,
Twisting through paths that mask disguise.
While bishops slide through shades between,
They blur the line of right and mean.
The rooks stand firm with rigid pride,
Their paths cut sharp, no step to slide.
The queen—so fierce, so fast, so grand—
Wields power none can understand.
The king just shuffles, slow and small,
Yet all would die to guard his fall.
But none ask why this prize they seek—
What worth has power if souls grow weak?
They fight for check, they fall for mate,
They crown the skill, yet praise the fate.
But when the game has run its thread,
All lie the same—still, cold, and dead.
No victor’s cheer, no mournful cries,
Just silent echoes, fading skies.
A silent watcher beyond the frame,
Eyes steady, untouched by fleeting game.
He watches rules with endless flight,
The fragile dance of truth and lies.
Unmoved by moves both thrill and blind,
He holds the truth the young can’t find—
That all their struggle, all their pain,
Is but a shadow, not the reign.
