To know this story, you must know this place,
Of merry hills and fort and sandy wars
And men and children grown in war's embrace,
The vow that's sworn away from death's own doors.
In winter chill, on top of mighty hill,
There stood a fort in merry joy and woe,
With drowsy moonshine dreams of household full,
Unbidden zephyr gallops wild like doe.
In rocky vales of winter darkling skies,
Where divine angels dwell in olden oaks,
And dulcet scent of dampen mound disguise,
The salty, sadden sweat of gallant folks.
The ancient granite fort with arrow slits,
A blackwood drawbridge, over pond of death,
That hangs on iron chains above the pit.
With sentry guards in pair and swords in sheath.
On eaves ornate, the sparrows chirp and roast,
A secret promise whispered close to nest,
The chandeliers burn with merry boast,
And castle bustling whole, without a rest.
With mane of crimson hair like autumn leaves
Her eyes so green like forest canopy,
The skin, a bit of cypress brown, tea-leaves,
Her voice like ocean singing symphony.
Like draught of vintage buried cellar deep,
In lives the damsel beauty—Mary, bright,
Beloved and father war in ****** keep,
For either death would cast a shadow wide.
And down the rocky hill, and fort ornate,
Beneath the waning moon, in savage lands,
Where deer and tiger, fox and wolf await,
In seas beyond, a battle fought in sands.
Along the winding path to castle-fort,
Where cobblestones bear moss and bramble thorn,
And cracked by sedge from bygone summer's lot,
A knight-in-arms, an anguish pilgrim lone.
By scarlet hawthorn berries, bare on branch,
Through cawing haunts of crows on winter night,
His quiet breath in crescent moonlight, staunch,
A requiem for souls in silent light.
As owls so hoot and croon and huddle close,
The knight, in ****** armor ambles forth,
Beneath his heavy foot a flower goes,
Exhaustion trembles set in arms thenceforth.
His heart, a writhing throe like Christ in woe,
As winter’s lash cuts deep in frozen flow,
The haggard knight in sorrow bowed so low,
And feels the icy hail upon his face.
The crimson plume on helm is wet in rain,
And drips its scarlet shade in flowing rills,
Its scarlet bleeding down in winding pain,
By dripping blood to lie and rest on hills.
Yet onward still he treads, though burdened sore,
For heavy debt on heart like python coil,
Through storm and steel, through blood and ocean’s roar,
"How long can blood endure such weary toil?"
The heavens blaze alight in argent strikes,
The man wishing silver barbs to escape,
Atop the castle high, his love awaits,
Awaits her knight and father's sound escape.
He broods and broods on how to tell her why,
Of father's death, of arrow meant for me,
His mood weighed down like overcastened skies
Of sorrow, guilt and pain in final sigh.
To walls and towers girdle fort around;
With gardens blooming full of supple rills,
As rose and winter lily buds surround,
By forests many old as craggy hills.
His footsteps worth and measureless to man,
The rosary, a gift that burns his vest,
The joy to see his Mary stings like cane,
His tears in rain to hide, he tries his best.
"If fate were honest, I would lie in dust,
Her father climbing up with steady breath.
But fickle fates as always lay unjust,
And stole the steel away, along with death.
What words suffice? What solace can I give?
Her father’s blood still stains my hands and skin.
To bring her beads, yet lack the man who lived—
A gift so light, a loss so deep within."
The beads that weigh more than his iron shield,
He stumbles over mud and road in pain,
And nears the fortress, iron gates in sight,
As sentry hails the knight, away from rain.
Through casement high and triple arched ways,
With corners filled with cobwebs, dusty old,
The latticed rooms that's chill like silent caves,
While walls adorned with banners, stubborn mold.
She rushes forth, a shriek of joy released,
Like flower's ecstasy her eyes alight
But halts—his eyes, cast low, his lips now sealed,
And weeps with anguish soft, a broken sight.
"How could you vanish, leaving me adrift,
On far-off shores where worthless battle calls?
If not beside me where our vows would shift,
Then in the earth—at home—your body falls.
My heart aches, not yet numb in drowsy pain
My sense, as nightshade, hemlock I did drink,
Should empty opiates to dull the drain,
Of memories that Lethe-wards do sink?
Five summers passed, their golden warmth now fled,
Your voice and words to bring the warmth of hearth
The sixth arrives—yet where has laughter sped?
Like waters, gurgle soft from mountain-earth?"
"My Mary, my love, don't you waste away,
For I did bring much more than death in sum,
Through seas and storm, the deadly men and fray,
Oh, I did bring a final breath a hum."
And saying so, the knight on ground he kneeled,
Unclasped his breastplate, and dug out from vest,
The prayer beads from father's hands he peeled,
His blessings, warm and still, his tethered light.
"His Mary’s hands must hold what he did last,
So spoke the gallant man, with final breath,"
With broken voice, the knight then spoke aghast,
"He took the arrow meant to pierce my breast"
Then Mary clutches beads in hands her tight,
A silent memory of love now lost.
Upon her lips, a vow to set aright,
The woes of fathers bound as sandy ghosts.
