Poet is the weaver of words
With every verse, a thread
The pen a needle
To craft most beatiful attire a quest
Of songs, poems and hymns
Muscian brings poetry to life
The words dance to the beat of drums
Ears serenated by dulcet tones
That spring forth from a beatiful voice
Warrior is the bringer of war
Weapon in hand, death in his eyes
His foes defeated, the land crimson
His craft is to bring death, until death bites back.
Widow is the one who lost it all
To the neverending tones of wars
The blood shed paid in tears
And the space never to be filled.
Poets gain inspiration
The deeds of conquerors assured
If the lands don´t remember their names
Our poems will forevermore
The muscian take the poem
And turns into song
Their names celebrated in taverns
And cheered all night long
The warrior will follow to drums
The neverending beats of war
To fight for conquerors a endevour most noble
Relish the carnage, bathe in the blood
And widows will be on their knees
Not singing songs or reciting hymns
Tears on her eyes, cursed name on their lips
Wondering how will she feed herself until next spring
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 7:40 PM UTC
Poet is the weaver of words
With every verse, a thread
The pen a needle
To craft most beatiful attire a quest
Of songs, poems and hymns
Muscian brings poetry to life
The words dance to the beat of drums
Ears serenated by dulcet tones
That spring forth from a beatiful voice
Warrior is the bringer of war
Weapon in hand, death in his eyes
His foes defeated, the land crimson
His craft is to bring death, until death bites back.
Widow is the one who lost it all
To the neverending tones of wars
The blood shed paid in tears
And the space never to be filled.
Poets gain inspiration
The deeds of conquerors assured
If the lands don´t remember their names
Our poems will forevermore
The muscian take the poem
And turns into song
Their names celebrated in taverns
And cheered all night long
The warrior will follow to drums
The neverending beats of war
To fight for conquerors a endevour most noble
Relish the carnage, bathe in the blood
And widows will be on their knees
Not singing songs or reciting hymns
Tears on her eyes, cursed name on their lips
Wondering how will she feed herself until next spring
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