They brace the moonlight with forgotten words
and follow broken trails
as if on a reconnaissance
to St Peters gate,
where they would be earnestly brushed away
without so much as a shed tear.
They feast on wild boar
and laugh into their mead,
those intrepid souls
without so much as a purpose,
render themselves to the dying winds.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 8:33 AM UTC
They brace the moonlight with forgotten words
and follow broken trails
as if on a reconnaissance
to St Peters gate,
where they would be earnestly brushed away
without so much as a shed tear.
They feast on wild boar
and laugh into their mead,
those intrepid souls
without so much as a purpose,
render themselves to the dying winds.
