Sweet the girl and tender her age,
She's too young for the fire's rage.
But, alas, the law still stands,
And punishment for her crime demands.

Little Oshichi, that greengrocer girl,
Her hands, restrain; and hair, unfurl.
She stands upright against the stake,
Weeping as she regrets her mistake.

She had fallen in love with a page,
While a fire had roared and raged.
As her house was burnt away,
Love, within her heart, gave way.

Entranced, enraptured, and captured with him,
Oshichi went forth on a fanciful whim.
Believing that it would bring them together,
She struck a flint and started a fire.

A clanging tocsin pierced the night,
"Me-gumi, hark! There's a fire to fight!"
A throng of ***** steeplejack boys
Rush to the scene with swaggering poise.

Oshichi now gazed in horror, aghast,
Watching as the fire spread fast–
Her dream of meeting her youthful lover
Set ablaze with burning desire.

Arrested, tried, and sentenced to suffer,
The judge, kind sir, tried his best to save her.
"Are you not 15?" he asked, worriedly.
"I'm 16, my lord," she answered meekly.

Bewildered and anxious, he asked yet again,
"Surely you're 15, young one, dear saint?"
She bowed her head and shed a tear.
"No... I'm 16," she answered with fear.

Cursing his fate, the judge had no choice.
He gave his sentence with a downcast voice:
"Yaoya Oshichi–what girl so tender–
Shall be burnt an arson offender."

Bound and burnt for want of love,
Oshichi lifts her gaze above.
Weeping as her smoke ascends,
She cries to heaven, its mercy lend.

At last, Oshichi succumbs to the fire,
Consumed by passion borne of desire.
Sweet the girl and bitter the flame,
As her lover cries out her name.

how long as it been?
perhaps too long,
or perhaps just the right
time in its coming,

not exactly heroism,
modern day heroism:
paying the bills,
"hunting" for food
in a supermarket...
      getting the window
seat on a plane...
my my,
          we're just so
heroic of all,
      but these days...

svá ek ríst ok í rúnum fák,
at sá gengr dauðr gumi
   ok mælir við mik

     ᛋᚹᚨ     ᛖᚴ
                ᚱᛁᛋᛏ       ᛟᚴ      ᛁ
ᚱᚢᚾᚢᛗ         ᚠᚨᚴ
       ᚨᛏ         ᛋᚨ
         ᚷᛖᚾᚷᚱ
                     ᛞᚨᚢᚦᚱ         ᚷᚢᛗᛁ
ᛟᚴ
    ­          ᛗᛇᛚᛁᚱ
         ᚹᛁᚦ                        ᛗᛁᚴ

i can so carve and
           colour the runes,
that the dead man walks
and talks with me...

vikings season 1,
episodes 7 & 8...

      it just had me thinking...
the blatant disregards
for poets
              by the anglo-saxons
by the brother of
the king...
   (episode 7)...

   and then...
the complete reverse of
   the norse king and his
high regards for poetry...
poet: chronicler...
    
                even now...
day to day outer suburban
day to day...
        i have found
that it might have began
with plato's criticism
of poets...
            
        but then the same
trend continues with
                   monotheism,
notably Islam...
           and yet...
these pagan barbarians...
held ars poetica
in high esteem...

              probably because
while the anglo-saxons
paid their court poets
for lies,
   bribery and a vanity
project...

   the norse kept their poets,
gave them everything:
except money...

                that's the only answer...
if someone gave me food,
shelter, drink...
    why would i need money?