A short poem

By Richard D. Lange ca. January 2026

The Grandmaster plays a most beautiful game.
With flourish and flair, pieces twirl, stomp, and sing.

A ballet of movement advances the knight.
A tactical blunder, but oh! What a sight!

Opponent impassive, it calculates mate.
Rote execution, inexorable fate.

The Grandmaster plays in humanity's name,
Not to win, but to play a most beautiful game.