The Poet Magister's
Letter From Grand Castle

     O People of Life, gather close, I speak to you from the heart of our Kingdom this evening. My cloak is woven of starlight and sorrow, my voice a flame kindled by the dreams of our children.

Tonight, under a moonless sky heavy with warning, I must speak of a darkness stealing the light from our young—a darkness born of unwise leaders who cast aside the arts that make us whole.

This is no mere tale, but a truth as real as the ground beneath your feet. Our children, our culture, our very beauty are at stake. Hear me, People of Life, as I warn, advise, and call you to rise, for you alone can save the songs of your nation.

In a town not unlike your town, a boy named Samual walks through a schoolhouse drained of colour. He is twelve, his heart a restless bird, yearning for the music that once set his imagination free. Not long ago, in the Song Hall, tended by kind and caring Keepers of The Arts, Sam found his voice. His shy notes joined a choir, his fingers danced on a ukulele, and he felt seen, whole, alive.

But the unwise, some even unelected leaders, seated in their cold towers, declared the Song Hall a waste. “We need workers for iron and numbers,” they proclaimed, their words sharp as winter’s bite. They silenced the music, locked away the instruments, and left Sam's songs to wither. He wanders alone now, his spirit dimming, a child whose light fades in a world that no longer sees or hears him.

Across the way, in a vibrant city, a girl named Tabitha hides her grief. Her hands once wove stories in paint, her murals adorning walls with tales of struggle and hope. The Art House, a sacred haven kept alive by the Good Keepers Of The Arts, was her refuge. But the unwise leaders, blind to beauty’s power, turned the Art House into storeroom, its magic and colours buried under dust. Tabitha's brush lies still, her heart heavy with unspoken dreams.

From village to town, from cities to nations, our children are losing their way, their voices stolen by those who see art as less valuable than the coin it costs. This is a vital matter,

O People. This darkness spreads across our Kingdom, from the northern forests where the First Peoples’ dances carry ancestral wisdom, to the southern plains where theater once wove hearts together. The unwise leaders, swayed by promises of wealth, have shuttered Song Halls and Dance Halls, deeming them “unnecessary.” They push our young toward iron machines and endless numbers, believing this will make us strong.

But I say to you, and to those leaders who may yet hear: you are tearing the soul from our Kingdom. You are robbing our children of the tools to dream, to heal, to be human.The cost we pay: Our Children, Our Culture, Our Future. The rewards of your folly: Addictions. Shattered dreams. Suicides.

Hear me, People of Life, for the loss of art is no mere inconvenience—it is a wound to our very being. Sam, who might have sung ballads to mend a broken village, now shrinks into silence, his confidence crumbling. Tabitha, whose murals could have brought hope to your streets, turns to anger, and drugs to ease the pain - her canvas gone.

Multiply their stories across our lands, and you see the shadow that looms: Imagine a generation without song, without colour, without the courage to imagine. Our children, especially those who speak through art—those who struggle with words, those who face hardship—are left voiceless, adrift in a Kingdom that grows colder each day. And this untended wound cuts deeper still.

For without art, a culture itself frays. The stories of our ancestors, the dances that bind us, the plays that teach us empathy—these are the threads of a grand tapestry called, "The People." When we let them unravel, we lose ourselves. When lost it breeds division, stress, distrust and violence. 

In the north, where the First Peoples weave their heritage in dance, the Dancehalls stand empty. In the south, where theater once bridged divides, the stages are dark, silenced by leaders who fear diverse voices. I warn you, unwise leaders: you are not building strength—you are sowing division, starving the spirit that makes us one.

And what of our future? Without art, we raise children who can forge machines but cannot dream of beauty, who can count coins but cannot feel the weight of pure joy and delight. A Kingdom without art is a Kingdom without hope, where authentic beauty becomes a forgotten whisper, and our people drift apart, lost in a world of iron and shadow.

I see it in your eyes, People of Life—you know this truth. You’ve seen it in your children, in the mother whose son found courage in a drama circle, now gone; in the father whose daughter’s violin was her shield against sorrow, now silent. Their creativity - their artistic expression is not a luxury—it is the heartbeat of our land. God bless The Keepers Of The Arts: Our Path to the human spirit made manifest.

Yes People, there is hope, and it burns within you. The Keepers, those sacred fellowships who guard the flame of art, stand as our beacon. In your town they can slip into the schoolhouse, their work sustained by your generosity. They can bring a composer to teach Sam ukulele once more. The can watch his fingers find the strings, and his smile return—a spark that could light a village.

The Keepers can restore a corner of the Art House, and watch Tabatha paint again, a mural of her grandmother stopping traffic with its quiet power. These are not mere acts—they are the evidence of a child's soul - and the soul of a nation.

But the unwise leaders, with their decrees of 2025, threaten to snuff out the life-giving funds, the lifeblood of The Keepers’ work. Without vital financial energy, the Song Halls and Art Houses will fall forever.

I turn to you, People of Life—mothers, fathers, weavers, bakers, dreamers—and I say: you are the guardians of our future. Your gifts, however small, are the embers that keep beauty alive. A coin from a carpenter buys a flute for a child. A seamstress’s donation funds a theater play where a shy girl finds her voice. Every act of giving is a defiance of the darkness, a vow that our children will not grow up in shadow.

To the unwise leaders, I issue this warning: turn from your path. Restore the arts to schools, for they are not frivolous but vital. You cannot build a Kingdom on iron alone—you must nurture the hearts that dream of better days. Would you spend another 1000 pounds of gold on more weapons designed for death, rather than build a nation of children strong and true.

Abandon the devilish call to evil and honour your duty to The People Of The Kingdom Of Life once again. Let God's light shine through you. Let the Keepers of the Arts flourish, for they carry the light you would extinguish.

I Call to You, People of Life. This is our story, and you hold its quill. Will you let unenlightened  leaders dim our children’s light? Or will you rise, as one - save the arts, and in doing so save the beating heart of Humankind?

Picture Samual, grown strong, his voice carrying a song that heals a village. See Tabitha, her murals a beacon of hope for creativity and imagination. These futures are yours to forge. Every child in our Kingdom deserves a chance to sing, to paint, to dance—to be whole. I call you to action, People of Life. Give what you can to The Keepers, the guardians of creativity—a coin, an hour, a voice raised in their name.

Share the tale of Sam and Tabatha, let it stir your neighbours’ hearts. Your hands can weave beauty back into schools, our communities, our future. This is not charity—it is a battle for the soul of the kingdom where humanity lives. If we lose art, we lose the thread that binds us. Without song, without colour, without storytelling, without poetry we become a kingdom of shadows, a cold, grey,  concrete planet called Earth, where beauty is but a memory, and childhood dreams go to die.

But with your support, courage, your love, your gifts, ART can write a different tale—a Kingdom where every child’s spark is kindled, where our culture thrives, and where beauty endures for all the years to come. Heed my cry, People of Life. Stand with the Keepers. Save the Arts. Save our children.

In doing so you save the light of LIFE itself.

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THE END

This tale is the truth of our world. The arts are fading, but art based nonprofits—The Keepers—stand ready to fight. Visit [SaveaChildArtis.org] to give, to act, to keep beauty alive. Be one of the people who save our children’s dreams.

Copyright 2025 Save A Child Artist / E. Laurence Bake