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Published by Loclynn
History poetry it the tradition of the bard.
History poetry it the tradition of the bard.

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Published by: Loclynn on Nov 27, 2009
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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Open book old photos tookOf day's gone by on sacred brook.Who am I, who now stands nigh?Oh, threaded tapestry of years gone by!Looking out beyond the sea,I see what things forgotten be.Blood from distant shores run deepThru time and space to haunt and steep,From myth and legends dragons keepTo modern cities' pavin' street.I seek a glimpse into the pastTo grasp a thread of totem's taps,To find a hope for future task,To bring forth somethingHallowed from ancient's path.I feel the chill of blood bound kings,Whose eyes held carnage in their rings;Filled with vendetta's bitter treeChoked with violent aristocracy.I see my tree with arms held highIn reverent homage to the Sky;Yet roots belie another tieTo cursed brothers under cry.
Welsh, Scot and Yorkshire tooFrom which a royal ransom dueOf devils' lot genetic brew.And let it not be forgotten,The blood of those ill begottenAcross the way no dowry paidOn Emerald Isles in long gone days.Come low now, Holy Church on highAnd place your hand upon my thigh,A new world order we decryWith bread and wine - a scepters prize,Of Holy King but crucified.Unite the kingdoms to empireAnd rule the world with smoke and fire.See then, oh valiant man of pride,On four horses you did ride,For unholy heaven's suicideAnd bleed the world with homicide.Is this the hope that we belieTo reap a crop of genocide,Swear an oath to sword and king,Fall and bend and break and glean,Turn blind eye to heart and queen,And mask a truth as yet unseen?Yet this was not the only path
That holds a key in memories sap.Beneath the ancient canopyIs yet another mystery.Look deeply now to nest and hallow,Alight thou freely thru vines and follow;For there is much more still to swallow.There is story yet untoldOf old forgotten sacred grove.And In the leaves of every treeIs told a tail not quit perceive.Of valiant love of common lawAnd freedom from the tyrant's clawOf hopes and dreams of harmonyThat walked upon the gallant breeze.Frosted morning silent lake,Witches' brew on beaded slate;Beneath are passions poised to wakeFar below the waters quake.Who is this lady tied to meDwelled once beyond the sea,In lore of magic's mystery?This lady of the lakeWhom church bells did forsakeLoclynn my blood to Sabat's prideBelow blue water she didst hide.Beneath Loclynn's solemn tide

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