The Glories of Struggle

[TH3GHOSTWAFFL3 489]

 

 

 

---

 

Dedicated to, and with the gracious patronage of, His Royal Majesty King Andrik III and the Kingdom of Hanseti-Ruska

And also dedicated to the great glory of the Holy Orenian Empire

 

The Glories of Struggle

 

I saw a woman, sat by the wayside
Once a low noble, now starving and shaking
I saw with dismay her tears as she cried
Her poor, emaciated body's aching
Her traumatised mind's close to shattering.

 

She calls for her mother, killed in this war
She calls for her lover, struck down in battle
The poor thing begs for bread, or a bed of straw
And begs for alms. She lives worse than cattle
And soon she'll die, and pass tragically unmourned.

 

This is war: indiscriminate sorrow.
This is the 'struggle' of which sick Godric speaks
In high, praising tones.This is the tomorrow 
He offers us. His misguided vengeance reeks
Of vain, blind 'justice' for entire peoples.

 

This is his 'struggle'; pointless destruction
Driven by a proud whip of 'retribution'
Smothered with fake humility's seduction
And disguised as reason, war's solution:
He's blind to the pointless deaths he causes.

 

Godric, of course, wouldn't spare that woman's life.
He looks past her cries and her ragged clothes
For Godric can't risk that she'll be a wife
For she's nothing but a 'future font of foes'
So for her noble birth she must die, of course.

 

 

Written by

Dietrich van Jungingen

-Writer and Philosopher-

 

 

---

[Callistus 989]

A man – some man, unmuddled by the troubles and tribulations of politics – reads aloud the poem to a peasantry contingent; a flock of the impoverished. A poem at which the grown folk burst laughing.

 

“By what rights do they dare claim an empress to have it worse? They act by shame, not sorrow.”

 

“Hear, hear! One cannot pretend to mourn righteously when they, indifferently and without the slightest sense, walk over dead carrion by the dozens. Their grieve as it seems pertains only to that of Kings and Queens.

Shame, not sorrow.”

[rukio 8924]

”They don’t spare their own people violent ends, so why should they expect the north to do what they won’t?” Edyth murmurs within the Morsgrad tavern, recalling past refusals of the Haensemen to rally and save their own men and women. ”They’ve taken the lives of our own, and now, tragically, theirs must meet a similar fate.”

[TH3GHOSTWAFFL3 489]

22 hours ago, Boruto said:

A man – some man, unmuddled by the troubles and tribulations of politics – reads aloud the poem to a peasantry contingent; a flock of the impoverished. A poem at which the grown folk burst laughing.

 

“By what rights do they dare claim an empress to have it worse? They act by shame, not sorrow.”

 

“Hear, hear! One cannot pretend to mourn righteously when they, indifferently and without the slightest sense, walk over dead carrion by the dozens. Their grieve as it seems pertains only to that of Kings and Queens.

Shame, not sorrow.”

 

If Dietrich had been there, he would’ve happily pointed out to the men that he had actually already written a poem mourning righteously of the impoverishment of peasants such as they: