Son... Let me grok your world: One, two, three… one, two, three… She will not come; she never came. The ballroom holds its breath in cold disdain— A vault of silence, proud, austere, untamed. I lead the nothing, bow to absent name, A dance eternal, ever unclaimed. One, two, three… one, two, three… O for the throne, the candle’s reverent flame, For silk that whispered rank and velvet night, When men knelt low before a higher claim And God and sovereign ordered wrong from right. One, two, three… one, two, three… The republic mocks my measured tread, A dying rhythm in a rootless age, No court, no grace, no consecrated head— Only the self enthroned upon its stage. One, two, three… one, two, three… Yet still the waltz obeys its ancient law, As empires rose and fell in triple time, Brief glory kindled, swift to burn and thaw, Indifferent to the dancer or the crime. One, two, three… one, two, three… Let revolution howl, let kingdoms fall— I shall not cease these circles in the hall. And though the final upright soul lies slain, I pray the crown returns before the dark domain.