The Washed Shingles of the World

Just a few weeks ago I agreed to manage a neighbor's lemonade stand, when a stranger made a purchase and proceeded to drink it, only then to confess to me that he had no money. While I am not  confrontational by nature, I found it within my duty as a good friend (to the original manager, not the customer) to demand some form of payment, where then he gave me a poem he had found and I was persuaded to make the change with money from my own pocket. While I told my friend about the incident, he took no interest in the poem, so I have kept it and publish it here for your interest.

We like to pretend that what we see is brand new,

That the tales all around us are for only a few,

We don’t want to think of what history has told,

So we progress down a path two thousand years old.

Oh you can’t go down the unbeaten trail,

Without some hope that others before,

Have walked along, and thus belong,

To a tale and a fate that we carry once more.

The fires of armies are burning bright,

They are burning quick and strong,

But the flame of God is in that night,

And has smoldered here all along.

Listen, listen now! Hear the receding roar?

The tides of God are turning fair,

Its crimson foam leaving cleaner there;

The washed shingles of the world.

To the Friar

 

The morning’s rays are waking, the lark is loud and clear,

Your counsel he is taking, you are a friend to him, and dear.

He asks you what and why to do, your answer is layered, like a lie,

But did you realize, even you, of who and how would die?

Oh you know many mysteries, you read minds like a book!

Your wisdom is for everyone, your advice that young fool took!

But now you see and now you know, you cannot subvert Death’s roaring flow;

Of tears and blood that no scheme could save, no potions divert that angst and woe.

You cannot stop this useless feud, without telling them 'twas useless death,

Two more have adorned the streets today, their bodies devoid blood and breath.

No marriage vow so secret, could have stopped a rush of swords,

No swing of steel could be parried, by a hidden exchange of words.

They stand with torches like robbers, but they forgive as God forgave,

And once again we wonder, whether so much blood was worth these knaves.

Another one from 'distant lands'

After last night's excursion into an ancient burial mound, I successfully recovered a missing page to the poem book: "Poetry from Distant Lands". Here is an excerpt I have translated from elvish:

 

The elf-keeps are smoking, the orc bands are raiding,

Oh Wesnoth, your soldiers: they’re idle and waiting,

Give ear! Give ear! Come swift to our aid,

For Lintanir and Wesmere are dark and afraid.

The beacons are burning, our riders have called,

Our scouts you are spurning; you remain in your halls,

The orcs, they are killing and cutting and felling,

Elf children are dying, while your general stalls.

Our soldiers are failing, our arrows are spent,

Our spears they have shattered, our armor is rent,

Our heroes have fallen, our captains have fled,

The green of the Kalian is burnt black and stained red.

Our homes they are torching, the tree-folk are dying,

Our soldiers are weeping, our children are crying,

The orc-hosts are chanting, and cheering and jeering,

They know now your horsemen won’t north come a-riding.

Our soldiers are fighting, and falling and fleeing,

Your swordsmen are missing, your spears we aren’t seeing,

Oh Haldric! Oh Haldric! Your men we are needing,

Your treaties and oaths, they are empty and bleeding.

Kalenz is marching, his battle song singing,

He’s routing the orcs, his bright sword is swinging,

The orcs they are quarrelling, and cursing and trembling,

They fear his bright eyes, and the troops he is bringing.

Our battle is won, the foemen are scattered,

Their chieftains are vanquished, their armies are shattered,

Our woods have been emptied, but the orcs are no more,

And all without Wesnoth, who did not march to war.

Oh Haldric, your treaties proved fragile as glass,

Your words soon forgotten like wind on the grass,

Therefore no elf bows will sing at your wars,

Nor swords will we send, when orcs lay siege to your doors.

Some poems I have discovered

I discovered a curious book of poems the other day, which was entitled: "Prose by a Willow Tree". Since I am well assured that willow trees cannot write prose, I must therefore give up any hope of the author's name and simply write these down as anonymous.

This was called "untitled no.1", appropriate name in my opinion.

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His body was broken; he wandered far,

Under darkness, and under star,

He spoke with the greatest of the Three that Are,

For neither fire nor shame could shake him.

Down, down, down he strode, through the dungeons of our pride,

Shining a light forgotten by the goblins there that hide,

Shattering chains with the words of hope that killed the kings of old,

Lifting whimpering emperors from their molding heaps of gold,

Reminding the ancient statue men what wait they had seen in store for them,

And leading a growing host, that longed for countless years to follow him.

Kings long withered from spells broke free, wind and song did herald them,

Blinking away the enchantments grey, that blinded and imprisoned them.

Stewards that had awaited a return, looked at last and knew,

That the young that had shriveled was finally gone, and the sea and tree were made new.

Here was the second poem, which I found somewhat confusing but very inspiring:
(This one was entitled "untitled no.2")
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Beyond the smoldering towers above,

Higher than the smoke that marks our pride,

A single lantern burns with love,

That the fumes of war cannot completely hide.

Our leaders are lacking, our empire falls,

Our watchmen and rulers have torn down our walls,

Inside our stronghold they gamble and plot,

While the furnaces of war burn red and burn hot.

Our people are frightened: they know not their fear,

They reach for their treasures and release what is dear,

The bowls of the angels fill up to their brims,

But we blot out the trumpet and ignore what we hear.

But when the sun grows dim and the sky grows black,

When we go forward in progress and forget to look back,

It’s times like those when our courage must show,

And the faith that that lantern-even hidden-will glow.

The towers may topple and the foundations may shake,

Our laws may be broken and our safe houses quake,

But truth is still truth, just as faith shall still burn,

And though smoke cloud our eyes, we must hope for the morn.

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