Chant of the Heathen

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A poem inspired by the English literature of the Romantic period, or atleast an attempt.

Submitted: June 28, 2012

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Submitted: June 28, 2012



I walk the path of the heathen,

I pass the wretched dead.

For in the eyes of holy men,

The wrong things have I said.

A ghostly voice is coming through,

The dead man he is near.

And like a chilly winter wind,

The cursed whispered in my ear.

“Our great Lord is almighty,

So do not yearn for vengeance,

For a man of wicked ways,

The only way is penance. ”

The cursed man had disappeared,

Into the fog he went,

But thinking about those wicked words,

A fortnight did I spend.

On the fifteenth day of afterlife,

Amidst the mist, what do I see?

Nay, the wonder is not what I see,

But that I see, for thick the fog has been.

I saw a light, a lustrous light,

As if an angel had shined upon it,

To cure this cursed blight.

My legs they marched, my feet did walk.

But the distance remained the same.

I went on but due to pain,

I kneeled and begged in shame.

“Lord, I seek redemption.

Redemption in this cursed place.

Let me tell my story,

Let me tell of my previous ways.”

The light now shined ever bright,

Bright like the very Morning Star.

And out of nowhere came a voice,

Trembling, but from afar.

“You need not tell,

I already know your story.

The angels had yet sung to me,

Of your so-called glory.

Because of their Christianity,

Two good men you had turned,

Into complete insanity.

You mocked their faith,

You broke their cross.

But as soon as they prayed,

It was your loss.”

The songs have been sung,

And their prayers are heard,

Yet among mist,

there flew a bird.


“Walk the path of this bird,

And penance will come to thee.

For your soul’s redemption,

This is the only key.”

I stepped to the beast,

But under my feet.

All began to tremble,

And my heart did suddenly beat.

Now alive in afterlife,

All the pain I felt.

But my eye was cast away,

To whatever the ground has held.

Now rose two men.

From the blight, no longer alight

Aye, remembering them I can.

With thorns so black,

One came to me,

And cut me from waist to neck.

Would this be penance, my final test?

Already did the other wander,

And, with a spear, cut me from breast to breast.

And often a day,

Whenever they pray.

The holy cross reopens.

That is my burden.

© Copyright 2017 AngelR. All rights reserved.

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