Dismal Days
All I know is this:
I am the front guard of the glorious country of my birth,
And over mossy berms grow riots in gourds;
I have forgotten the pleasures of mirth,
Having been on my steed,
Going back and forth along the Ill-defined border, many years;
And I have no inkling of freedom,
Only a gatherer of firewood,
Animal skin hoarder.
The fen freezes from December to April,
Then stinks all the summer long.
One day I came across some trackers,
Who hailed me at a distince,
Asking what border I guarded,
My lance pointed at them.
'Pray you, good sirs, heed my warning! '
But they informed me that my Kingdom was now defunct,
An old dream, an empty path.
Lowering my weapon then, weeping,
Pouring tears through my meaningless laugh.
poem by Stan Petrovich
Added by Poetry Lover
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