It was late in the year and the whole land was weary
With the weight of her burdens and fullness of blood.
Alone in his pride with autonomous bearing,
A haughty and arrogant ruler once stood.
How few were the Northern aggressors invading!
How great was the host that you mustered to war!
But yours was the bloodguilt, the sullen evading,
And you would see mighty men falling in scores.
Away with the mighty king in battle stricken,
The king who did murder all sayers of sooth!
Give his care to the servants whose courage has quickened:
The one with the sharp knife remembers the truth.
It was late in the year and the land was exhausted
With the weight of her burdens and knowledge of blood.
Alone with his treachery, everything fearing,
A lonely and ruinous ruler once stood.
This is what happens when I try to shift gears too quickly between modern verse and otherwise.
Posted by: bob at March 24, 2006 06:54 PM