(A re-post from some years ago and one which owes a debt to Dave Bradley who referenced something like this in a Discussion thread.  I have chopped it into little lines for the purists among you.  Personally, I see it as prose).

The Dream-Spinner held aloft his prize.

The vanquished fled from the yurt.

Cheku growled his disdain.

Three times Cheku had held aloft

The sacred skull

Three times he had condemned

A man to die.

In Cheku’s day a vanquished poet

Did not walk from the yurt.

Cheku growled again.

There was no passion in poets anymore.