My first death wetly cups the ground. I cry
"Hurrah!" and throw my bright shield down. He stands,
and, later, dry, hot mead at lips, our hands
grip tight, we toast to life, and don't ask why.
Exultant now, I arm anew. I try,
my sword arm hard and sore, as each blow lands,
for my second death. Such death demands
a grunted "good", a fall, a false good-bye.
What joyful life would ask its friends to die?
No gaily painted shield can stop the sands
that trickle out and mark us aged. Strands
of ghostly white cup our face, and don't lie.
I feel no joy in watching my friends die.
My first death wetly cups the ground. I cry.
The West Kingdom History Website was created by and is maintained by Hirsch von Henford (mka Ken Mayer).