The spring rain plummets on the broken glass
Half tarnished mirror lighting up the stains
Empty envelopes doth the cool wind pass
Few fading words foretell a return fain
Dark residue of distant raging fire
A gallant tale retold in hero’s voice
But broken tune is all strung by thy lyre
As history determines my last choice
The ancient pathway dotted by fresh fern
Upon the old bequest of fallen knights
How many promises do I must spurn
Can I from the same lasting guilt take flight.
The clashes gone, the soldiers’ distant care
I walk through the abandoned city bare.
© Copyright 2018 skematt. All rights reserved.
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