Gold sings sweet in the sunlit air,
all honeyed voice and shining flair;
a handsome note, a clever line -
and, fair enough, they land just fine.

He catches light with easy grace,
it smoulders warm upon his face;
the crowd leans in, the moment glows -
no shame at all, that's how it goes.

But silver weaves a subtler art,
it threads the dusk, it holds the heart;
her quiet lines don't court the day,
they find their strength where light gives way.

She does not chase the sun's acclaim,
nor gild her words with borrowed flame;
they settle soft, then deeper grow-
through shadowed nights and aching woe.

So let him bask in noonday praise,
and spend himself in golden play;
but when the fire has come and gone,
her silver songs will linger on.

Penned by my hand on the 11th of Glacian, in the year 1000 AF.