Gilden Blood
11:40 æt 22.7.11
Sat upon that gilden ground in morn, to whom aye they sang, off at blood and bloom for whose blood ruled those slain. A blood trickling to and fro spread deep within the branches, a snap in one from the castle's tree gives another chances. For a brother apart, of rights but nay land, to cut the vine and take his hand. The king then strook his weathered beard and took to quill his frights most dear.
Hence that night they stormed wherever to, told of tales by their brew, of him the king behind their shields but nary atop the mane. Beyond kingdoms of walls and those of thatch, whence the moon shines bright across the day, like a roar of might of pawns at nay. The young were stridden, as the old done bidden, away from their kin and kine rode smitten at becoming lore to be written.
Daybreak brought brittle, shattered blades and broken helms of thoughts laid away. His brother ran the blood, across his sword, past those of times' mud. Oft with shed, as often is, for the branche's buds whose lives were bled. And lore they were, to whose will rung high, the king upon his gilden ground, soaked in their blood and took of his sigh.
Labels: poetry
The Day Burns On
10:31 æt 21.7.11
A fleet as the day burns new. Beneath the weighing sky a shadow is born, bidden to see and be seen with ages' pass. Alight with smite, driving forward the clock of it all, to the edge of its wringing and build, reckoned from the crumbling amidst the mortal stone. Halted is what little there is to take. Each breath, every step, from wake till dusk the darkness inches forth, thus fleet is wiped amongst eaten shades. Tainted by whom bids to see. Scorched from the land and hearts set aflame yet to ash. Corrupted and yet our memory pure we stand, we await the dawn of all. The night is forgotten as the day burns on.
A wee shred of Anglisc:
þær wunaþ begeondan ūs nanwuht.
nanwuht þe fram ūs belifeþ þe tō geblandan.
geblandon gīet scīr ūrum gemynde bēoþ standende.
standende wē abidaþ þāra ealla dægræd þær.
A fleet as the day burns new. Beneath the weighing sky a shadow is born, bidden to see and be seen with ages' pass. Alight with smite, driving forward the clock of it all, to the edge of its wringing and build, reckoned from the crumbling amidst the mortal stone. Halted is what little there is to take. Each breath, every step, from wake till dusk the darkness inches forth, thus fleet is wiped amongst eaten shades. Tainted by whom bids to see. Scorched from the land and hearts set aflame yet to ash. Corrupted and yet our memory pure we stand, we await the dawn of all. The night is forgotten as the day burns on.A wee shred of Anglisc:
þær wunaþ begeondan ūs nanwuht.
nanwuht þe fram ūs belifeþ þe tō geblandan.
geblandon gīet scīr ūrum gemynde bēoþ standende.
standende wē abidaþ þāra ealla dægræd þær.
Labels: poetry
The Fire Melts
12:01 æt 20.7.11
They, the ones of yore-day's past, past the shield of fire sparking against the frosted night. Hidden behind a wall of glass, seen to all, known by none. They march together clad thus in smoke, the chill of the unknown, sent forth by their beckoning. Their keenish will wrought on wood, to those seated above them whom shall get their reckoning. They storm in darkness for the light of all, to the hall at the middle of the land. It seems to them that it is clear; their heed, their cry, but not to whom falls down upon to hear. Fire to fire, a fear and shudder clashing to fight or flight as tooth and nail be crushed between men in the dead of night. A break in the line in the panic of rush of those who stood in the way of good luck. Thus they ran, like their fallen before, through thick then thin therefore. They had thought they won, they had thought their halt flew, but nay, for those of yore-day done dealt and strength grew. Though their homeland at stake, they roared and pillaged from their very own. Truth was lost and caved in what with sorrow. A revolt in the making put down by morrow. For he who won they rested in stained snow, lives drained for the glory of one to bestow. Thus those of fallen kings fall not themselves to vengeance, but deep in the blood of the bank, the fire melts between frozen glances.
Labels: poetry
