by Etienne Suarven Lorneau, in Dark Ages
That lamp sits atop its pole,
Its goal is set, it has a role.
Perhaps it was a godly dole
Cheering up this damp hole.
See the ship bound to sea?
And the sailors - is that glee?
Stormy weather, no safety.
Maybe they're happy to flee.
Where are the cows, where's my sheep?
Did they run away when I fell asleep?
This place's been facing changes so deep,
Being covered with this filthy creep.
There is still life left here,
Despite this constant fear.
Down the alley, terror is near,
Lurking at what I hold so dear.
Almost fifteen moons past that twist of fate,
But four fables were written, after the cursed date:
This comes as proof it is not yet too late
To put onto paper my love and my hate.
The losses are unrepairable, says the sword,
But happiness shall return, is the wands' word.
In these parchments, then, my hopes I record,
That the gods who forsook us may reach an accord.
The future is a blank page for us to write.
This land's destiny is out of sight.
My tale's death was here, its ending far from bright;
I thus start the second tale, and shall make it right.
This city is sinking, and so am I,
But there's certainly more than meets the eye.
The core, the essence, is untouched by this lie:
Rucesion - and I - shall not die.
Hear me, hear me, those not gone.
My business here isn't done.
These concrete pathways around prone
Failed to extinguish what once shone.
See that man pointing to the sky,
Shaking his fists, shouting a cry?
With all his might he does try,
And his words are far from shy.
See that girl, the familiar look?
Were fuzz a food, she'd be the cook.
Like one who gave more than she took,
And is gone now, left a black book.
That grape, I'd love to have in my vine,
This said before any sips of wine.
Keep from this poem at least this line:
In inspite of times, she will always shine.
Few flowers grow here, fewer this lovely.
In a valley of darkness, a yellow, wee lily
Persists, noble, yet in an aura of humility.
Justice is served; she deserves it greatly.
My worst enemy, of romantic lust,
To you, scarlet fish, I'd raise a statue, a bust.
We both lost, but you won my trust;
Praise you in these strophes, I feel I must.
Rucesion, I should've come before,
And I wish I could offer more...
My grief I left in Abel's shore,
My heart is Lourian, and my life is yours.