In youth he sat, a boy/a lad,
his heart a thing of fire;
fed well, he grew to towering height,
broad and fierce with ire.
For pain 'twas iron, friend and foe,
the means by which he forged;
his scars were thick, limbs silverquick,
a beastly strength engorged.
Called upon by King and God, he rode with sword in hand,
away from hearth and home he trod to sweat upon fell sand;
foreign shouts did hurl his way, and foreign swords aside,
thus the youth did brave his fate, thus the youth did die.
Then did bloom a man for true, who knew the worth of life;
then did rot the shining thought that God was on his side.
Indeed, for which a dream then came: a safe/secure abode;
a house away from salted fields, to bury griefsome loads.
From that day, what blood he shed was his and his alone;
a consequence of calloused trod and deeply pleated bone.
His tongue and hands became a law, honouring his toil;
his feet dug trenches, long and wide, all throughout black soil.
Black like death left to sit, spectator to war;
a conflict come again to him, a clashing he named 'Bore.'
"For how can God think this fine, think this not a waste?"
"All these orphans sent to die, soured cream their taste."
Flame alight for a ***** he took up his sword;
marched unto the Golden Gates, striking Fury's chord.
"Tyrant, face me," he proclaimed, whisper thunder's equal.
"Speak no lies," he disdained, sorrow old grief's sequel.
Years from then, while old and grey, he loosed a red lament:
"Spoken truth I pled from God, and spoken truth He spent."
"'I've no idea why you're here, I've no thought for your kind.'"
"'Who told you that I cared for Man, those awful warring blind?'"
Nov 14, 2025
Nov 14, 2025 at 3:47 AM UTC
In youth he sat, a boy/a lad,
his heart a thing of fire;
fed well, he grew to towering height,
broad and fierce with ire.
For pain 'twas iron, friend and foe,
the means by which he forged;
his scars were thick, limbs silverquick,
a beastly strength engorged.
Called upon by King and God, he rode with sword in hand,
away from hearth and home he trod to sweat upon fell sand;
foreign shouts did hurl his way, and foreign swords aside,
thus the youth did brave his fate, thus the youth did die.
Then did bloom a man for true, who knew the worth of life;
then did rot the shining thought that God was on his side.
Indeed, for which a dream then came: a safe/secure abode;
a house away from salted fields, to bury griefsome loads.
From that day, what blood he shed was his and his alone;
a consequence of calloused trod and deeply pleated bone.
His tongue and hands became a law, honouring his toil;
his feet dug trenches, long and wide, all throughout black soil.
Black like death left to sit, spectator to war;
a conflict come again to him, a clashing he named 'Bore.'
"For how can God think this fine, think this not a waste?"
"All these orphans sent to die, soured cream their taste."
Flame alight for a ***** he took up his sword;
marched unto the Golden Gates, striking Fury's chord.
"Tyrant, face me," he proclaimed, whisper thunder's equal.
"Speak no lies," he disdained, sorrow old grief's sequel.
Years from then, while old and grey, he loosed a red lament:
"Spoken truth I pled from God, and spoken truth He spent."
"'I've no idea why you're here, I've no thought for your kind.'"
"'Who told you that I cared for Man, those awful warring blind?'"
I think this poem is best read aloud. But maybe that's just me?