From A Monk

While visiting a good friend and viking historian, (a scandinavian nis, to be exact,) I had the rare opportunity to examine some interesting documents found within an excavation site off the coast of juteland. Buried in the turf amongst the various waste products of the Viking culture, (old bowls, sheep bones, select remains of one's enemies, etc...) there was this curious little scrap of vellum dating back to the eighth century, and carried a little poem that we can guess was written by a captive briton.

Since we hold the truth that this particular briton could write to be self-evident, we decided that he must be a monk, and so I call this particular poem "From a Monk".

"From a Monk"


The restless breakers toss and roll,
I think they will not sleep tonight,
the sullen clouds above them pour;
deep water hides my home from sight.

The ocean rain whips her guests with hate;
O tremble beneath my sodden  hood,
I have felt sharper whips of late;
the restless hunger for harmless blood.

Blood on axes, fire in houses,
unshaven men on the holy isle,
they're red with laughing, red with killing,
all golden grins and ruthless smiles.

Three the sacred Godhead rule,
yet our Christ alone cleansed Calvary,
Three of the brothers were bound like mules,
I alone survived for slavery.

I know not what purpose I'll fill for them,
whether altar blood or sweating hands,
but the fire of God has found dry wood;
so I'll light this land with burning brands.