Cawing of the Crow

[Sander 3155]

Cawing of the Crow:
Haeseni Poetry
by Feodor May


In honour of Dietrich van Jungingen, Haeseni Poet

INTRODUCTION
This writ will serve as a compilation of many pieces of poetry written by the eloquent men of Hanseti-Ruska. You’ll find work from the likes of Vorloin Baruch, myself and of course the great Dietrich van Jungingen among others. May it provide a means to preserve their work and remember the authors themselves.

-Feodor May

 

---

CONTENT ((OOC: Feel free to send in more, this is what I found so far.))

The Miscellanies - Dietrich van Jungingen
Helena’s Walls
The Wheel Turns
The Stallion
Renatus Defeated
Sons of Horen
Is this right, for I do not know
The humble Chair
Helena, the Frontier State
The Lupine Instinct
A Josephite Remembers
Ode to the glorious Silver State
Child of Haense - Feodor May
The Troubles - Dietrich van Jungingen
The Imperial Peasant
The Calling of the Will
The Glories of Struggle
Raiders!
Justice
A Final Death?
Progress and Devastation - Karl Amador
Storm and Sea - Corbin Wick
Sigismund’s Kingdom - Dietrich van Jungingen
The Sea of Fate
Battle Song of the North
Two Crows
An Ode to Koeng Andrik III
The Prikaz
Untitled - Feodor May
The Sturmholm Folio - Vorloin Baruch
O Father
The Good Men
Katharina’s Song
The Sunset
Godan’s Muse
The Holes of Wintertime
Soeng Karoseo : A Song of Crows
The Choice to Shape a Future - Fiske Vanir
The Halfling - Feodor May
The Nation Awakes - Dietrich van Jungingen
To the Foes of Hanseti-Ruska
Let the Nation Awake
 

---

HELENA'S WALLS 

 

The Crow marches on, to Helena’s Walls,

And righteousness follows after him, a noble struggle,

Preceded by justice and glory,

To remove Godfrey from his blood-stained halls.

 

Haeseni brothers stand side by side, united,

Against the perfidious Pertinaxi.

Joseph’s men fight for truth and liberation;

And despite grave wounds, fight with lion-like bravery,

For it is their duty to serve their nation

Against the false Dragon, to end Godfrey’s slavery

Of the stolen throne of Renatus.

 

The streets are filled to the brim with sorrow.

Men are slashed and killed,

Throats are cut where soldiers lay,

Blood is gashed and spilled,

And the wounded slaughtered on this day.

In these times of pain and greed,

Renatus cares not for a humane deed.

 

The tide turns, the heroes are shattered

Inside these perfidious palace halls.

But there’s no time to weep as the Crow falls,

And drips his blood down Helena’s Walls;

 

No, the hateful false Dragon must be slain,

By blood and by steel, it will pay for its crime,

So avenge this defeat; Men of Arcas, rise!

Stand up and fight, for now is your time!

 

---

 

THE WHEEL TURNS 

 

Nothing ever changes, the wheel keeps turning,

Nothing new happens on this tired old world.

Everything’s already come to pass before; intrigue’s burning,

And humanity’s still not learning

That a squabble then a war is not the only path.

 

The wheel keeps turning, an Empire stands, it’ll crumble in time,

The ninth Empire; a telling number.

History’s annals will always be caked in the grime,

Of the men and woman who in their prime,

Did nothing but waste away their little lives.

 

The wheel keeps turning. What are we petty men but dust?

We are soon but fading memories, then soon forgotten.

Our minds must be caked in a rotting rust

For we cannot see that we must

Live now because soon we will die.

 

The wheel keeps turning – soon it will stop, for me and you

For we are but candles in the rain

Extinguished in an instant, to be replaced by the new

And there’s nothing you or I can possibly do

But cement our legacy now, before it’s too late.

 

The wheel will not be turning for long, for us.

Soon the wheel shall turn again and leave us behind.

So heed what I say, for I say thus

That we must do what we can now, to be remembered.

 

You must think, write, you must compose,

For a good cause fight, anything I suppose

So long as in a hundred years men will about you say:

‘This man was great, a great man of his day.’

 

 

---

 

THE STALLION 

 

See the Stallion, this god of war,

And gasp in terror and in fear

As this knight lets out his battle-roar

And smites his foes far and near;

They fall before this being.

 

Who is this saint of battle, who walks amongst mere men?

He is the Northern saviour, whose never made a judgement wrong;

Who is this clever mind of war, who's beyond mere mortal ken?

He is a mighty soldier, who's praised in every tavern song;

 

So I'll tell you who this is, dear friends

For to the King his talent lends

And for our Kingdom he has served 

And from his mission never curved;

This is a man of duty and of honour.

 

His victories roll from heralds' tongues;

He is this Kingdom's warder

And his loyal men make weak their lungs

To cry 'Aye!' to every order:

At Helena, Silversea, Leuven, he fought as a lion.

 

He's at the front of every charge,

The greatest general of our day,

His feats are many, always large:

The brave Ser Wilheim Barclay.

 

 

---

 

RENATUS DEFEATED 

 

Ah, you crumbled, dead, Renatian regime!

Your legions are gone - good riddance to that;

Your memory's ephemeral, like a forgotten bad dream;

No more Kings on the Dragon’s throne are sat.

Your own people rejoiced when you were dissolved

And not by a heroic struggle, but by a mere decree!

You who made Helena decadent and devolved:

I remember your end with satisfied glee.

 

 

---

 

SONS OF HOREN 

 

When the wars are looking bad

And all our allies start to flee

That's when I feel so truly glad

For what Lord Barclay said to me:

 

March, march and raise the shout!

Hear the call, all men of Oren!

Front the charge and start the rout,

Fight for man, proud sons of Horen!

 

If we lacked GOD's holy light -

Which blesses even Oren's poorest field -

If we lacked GOD's holy might -

What heathen faith could be a shield?

 

March, march and raise the shout!

Hear the call, all men of Oren!

Front the charge and start the rout,

Fight for man, proud sons of Horen!

 

If we did not stand and fight -

Which is of course our greatest moral duty -

If we did not do what's right -

What would become of Oren's beauty?

 

March, march and raise the shout!

Hear the call, all men of Oren!

Front the charge and start the rout,

Fight for man, proud sons of Horen!

 

If we had not hearts resolute -

Which they are, they're brave enough for double -

If we had not valour in dispute -

Would Oren have weathered the troubles?

 

March, march and raise the shout!

Hear the call, all men of Oren!

Front the charge and start the rout,

Fight for man, proud sons of Horen!

 

March, march and raise the shout!

Hear the call, all men of Oren!

Front the charge and start the rout,

Fight for man, proud sons of Horen!

 

 

---

 

IS THIS RIGHT, FOR I DO NOT KNOW 

 

The sons take up their father's role

The family is broken.

Is this right? Is this duty

Or some treason?

 

In northern climes

The aggrieved gather round a table 

With an undefined authority.

Bestowed by none.

 

With unanimous clamours,

Maybe intent to power,

They proclaim to uphold the crown,

But do they defy it?

 

I forget what is right. Perhaps they are right.

Morality’s glass steams with a thousand breaths. 

I know only the sanctity of law

The neutral power of authority.

 

I forget reason, as all do.

I wait with bated breath

For the clouds to clear.

Or gather

 

 

---

 

THE HUMBLE CHAIR 

 

Is a chair a humble thing?

No pig ever made a chair.

What crude beast ever sat upon a seat?

It is a pleasure, a chair, pure civilisation,

Imagined by mankind

To please mankind. 

Why is a throne special?

Man says it is a special place to sit.

A chair that should bestow absolute authority.

So you see, it is not chairs

That are mundane, but rather 

Mankind's majesty is mundane.

 

 

---

 

HELENA, THE FRONTIER STATE 

 

Ah, Helena, the frontier city!

With its strange, furless fashions -

Oh how I feel for our senators with pity,

Without carrion black or 'Haenser' passions.

 

Pioneers of an age, trudging for pearls,

Our young men venture up to the south.

Bereft of maidens, they court exotic girls,

Drawn deep into danger's smiling mouth;

 

So, far from the pleasant heartlands,

Far from their safe homes in the north,

They're sucked into unknown quicksands

Which only a frontier state brings forth.

 

Ah Helena, what an odd place!

So far from normal, civilised Haense!

 

 

---

 

THE LUPINE INSTINCT 

 

All others have an enigmatic passion - 

It is the lupine instinct, of the randy beast,

The kind that urges man on,

To ensure that mankind is plentiful,

Or to enjoy himself in private.

 

And yet, what is that feeling?

I do not know - how can I know?

I do not think I feel it, this urge

This lusty and supposedly enjoyable urge.

How can a man not know what he lacks?

 

It is unknown to me, this primeval desire,

As old as time and more frequent than rain.

But is it unknown?

It is definitely an enigma, or perhaps simply 

It is some riddle for me to unravel.

 

I do not know my own self -

I am on the unknown waters of the soul,

Rowing towards a shadowed point -

On lonely nights I think on all this,

And it is a great trouble to my mind.

 

 

---

 

A JOSEPHITE REMEMBERS 

 

My eyes see yours hung upon the wall,

So do you see me and judge your servant?

My emperor, for whom I bled and cried

See these marks upon this mortal's flesh

See them burn as grass and hurt with pride

As the terrors within my mind grow fresh.

 

My heart still burns for you!

Man of letters, philosopher-emperor,

I serve you still in ideals, with mind 

And I uphold your wisdom so sweet

Though in times I weep, as man is blind 

I weep the most for your defeat.

 

Do not judge harshly, I serve my best 

But I am but a man, and a man forgets.

 

 

---

 

ODE TO THE GLORIOUS SILVER STATE 

 

Oh how I love those brilliant elves

And quite rightly they adore themselves!

So respectful of us lesser races

They even honour us 'valah', such graces!

 

In the manoeuvre they're second to none;

Though they can't recall a battle won,

They're true masters of the retreat -

Those elves, they've learned to trust their feet!

 

And their delicate noses are nobly high 

Oh they love to snort that elven sky!

Pointing skyward, so sharp, so straight -

Hubris, in truth, is an appealing trait!

 

Even the maids spend well their countless years:

Checking their blood, from understandable fears,

Lounging, idling, majestically reposing,

And to any son of Horen: exposing.

 

 

---

CHILD OF HAENSE

I was born in Haense
I have her sons as brethren
I have her ruler as my father
I have her pride as comfort
I have drunk the waters of her culture
I have made her past my own
I keep her boldness as my companion
I lost in her defeat and live in her victory
I breathe freely only in her climate
I know her treasures and her tribulations
I see her errors in all their beauty
And I have done my best, with others
To defend her interests
 

---

THE IMPERIAL PEASANT 

 

I walk often through these sodden fields

And mine tired eyes do often see

A weeded land with barren yields

Where a poor man slaves in misery

For meager pay, no real reward;

A thankless job, for his thankless lord.

 

No clothes upon his wretched back

Save tattered rags, wet with fog

And a cheap, filthy, worthless sack

Shot with holes, not fit for a dog

Let alone for a man made by God;

Yet forced to suffer a strong birch rod.

 

At his side he bears a mark of war

And when he toils it creaks and groans

For once to the Emperor he swore

And fought, yet nobody even hears his moans

For nobody cares for those like him;

See how his body is bony and slim.

 

His wife clings to his side in the rain

A woman with nothing to her name

And nothing but death to hope to gain

For when he dies, there's nothing to claim

And no money to pay for a marked grave;

For this wretched man is paid as a slave.

 

 

---

 

THE CALLING OF THE WILL

 

Our union's been slighted, here's a fight -

When your Empire calls will you assist?

Here comes war, to cowards' fright -

For freedom's sake will you enlist?

Here's your home, in the enemy's sight -

When Morsgrad comes will you raise your fist?

Here comes Godric, duke of blight -

In foul tyranny's face will you resist?

Here comes war, the long black night - 

We'll perish, if we do not persist!

 

 

---

 

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.

 

 

---

 

RAIDERS!

 

Look south! A column of smoke rises, 

Far away, far off in the distance.

They'll now be looting stolen prizes -

Those raiders, I mean, squashing resistance.

 

It's the second attack this fortday,

The second poor farm to fall that is.

Maybe the army'll make them pay -

But those bandits, they'll be off in a whizz.

 

Are they from Norland? Or Elves, or Orcs?

There's no way of knowing right now.

Perhaps we'll tell from the wounds of a corpse -

Anyway, we always find out somehow.

 

The horizon, see it cloud, dusty;

Those men are moving off - surprising.

These didn't stay long - these weren’t lusty -

But look west! A column is rising!

 

 

---

 

JUSTICE

 

The judge looms over the convicted,

A wig of steel sat upon his solemn brow.

He's ready to sentence, unrestricted.

The criminal, she cowers in a bow.

 

There's no jury, no risk of dissent.

Defendants or subpoenas, a petition,

The judge does not care, he does not relent.

The judge demands complete submission.

 

The small child, she cries, her eyes bleed tears.

This is not a satisfactory defence.

Her innocence and her eleven years

Will not save her. Justice will now commence.

 

The judge raises high his station's sign - 

The sword, where legitimacy arises.

Between law and crime there's no real line;

Death is a sentence that fits all sizes.

 

 

---

 

A FINAL DEATH?

 

The darkness is quiet tonight.

Now, life seems instant and War's breath

Comes fitful in the singular moment.

The stars glance at man's folly

And wait, eager to look upon a new world.

 

The waning moon gleams on a bloody sword.

And as he wipes the thirsting thing clean of gore

The blades of grass seem to melt in the wind.

He sheathes his blade, and finally

The instrument of death is forgotten.

 

There are no mourners,

None for this wretched creature,

This murderer and destroyer.

He sits, dying in a blood soaked world,

With the weight of thousands dead upon him.

 

He throws off his armour,

He casts down his spear, he feels

His bloody and endless sweat

Cool and disappear in a peaceful wind.

His heavy eyelids close for the first time.

 

Mankind is freed.

For now

 

---

PROGRESS AND DEVASTATION

Huge manufactory chimneys, in each lovely place,
Belch out their foul smoke over nature’s fair face.
The soot of the furnace begrimes the Spring bloom,
The reeking ‘Plant’ taints every blossom’s perfume.

The streams, that were crystal, pollution imbrowns
With the refuse of ‘Works’ and the sewage of towns,
And the angler no more strolls along on the brink
Of the once pleasant river that now is a sink.

For the fish they are poisoned, trout grayling, roach, dace,
From pike down to minnow, the whole finny race.
And the spirits too of many a drowned hath fled
The banks now by rats alone haunted instead.

Vast chemical workshops on all sides abound,
Diffusing the breath of corrosion around;
And their fumes, worse than locusts in swarms on the wing,
Blast, utterly, tree, herb, and every green thing.

If the struggle for life, our engrossing employ,
All that makes life worth living at length must destroy,
Cannot our men at least save some verdure and flowers
To last the short time that remains to be ours?

 

---

STORM AND SEA

Shrill winds howl past,
Her crew scrambles in fear.
Waves crash, stirring the mast,
Waiting for the captain’s orders to hear.

The current against her, disorientating,
Nature proving to make a mockery.
In a flash, former sails torn,
A captain unfit, overboard, his ship like a shanty.

Her leader gone, crew in a mess,
They search for a captain, above the rest.
The storm continues, time counting to less,
A new sail rises, quickly to crest.

Blue and black, look over the restless crew,
With old gone, starting anew,
A young leader, to sail the ship.
He, the new captain, careful to slip.

To clear the storm was his only goal,
To his command the crew followed tirelessly.
The ship sailed on, taking it’s toll,
But to make it out, a Vanir takes the sea.

 

---

THE SEA OF FATE 

 

We stand before the sea of fate,

Steering Hanseti-Ruska’s course;

One way to ruin, the end of the state

Glory the other, the end of remorse!

 

For the way to triumph is beckoning,

If the bold are ready to seize it

The Crow is facing a reckoning;

So call back our national spirit!

 

Look back at our enemy, dissolved by decree,

Dissolved by the war it supposedly won;

And yet Haense still stands, in spirit free -

We stand still glorious, so smile as the sun!

 

So rally now, you loyal Haense-men,

And spur the horse of your ambition

Our kingdom shall be great then;

A people with a vision!

 

 

---

 

BATTLE SONG OF THE NORTH

 

I've walked amongst our lilies that are all the world's desire

I've heard our crows that flock to sing the praises of our sire

I've seen our beauteous forests that are growing ever higher

We march to save our homes, We march to save our homes

 

Ave now to the Koeng! Long live the Koeng! 

We'll die to save the North!

 

When Sigismund took up his scroll this truth he did reveal

The North shall last forevermore for Jove has blessed our steel

So as we march for Koeng and Jove let none now doubt our zeal

We march to serve our faith, We march to serve our faith

 

Ave now to the Koeng! Long live the Koeng! 

We'll die to save the North!

 

We're men of Ruska and of Haense we won’t back down in fright

So draw your swords and seize your reins, we'll give the South their fight

We'll charge them in the daytime and we'll raid them in the night

We march to crush our foes, We march to crush our foes

 

Ave now to the Koeng! Long live the Koeng! 

We'll die to save the North! We’ll die to save the North!

 

 

---

 

TWO CROWS

 

Two crows fly overhead, over forest and field

Their glossy feathers shining with many hues.

They soar from Nenzing to the Rezan weald

With a common unity no man can refuse.

 

These twin sisters fly overhead, with one vision,

With one heart and mind guiding them on they speak

With a common wisdom in every decision.

They have a common unity, ancient, unique.

 

In their talons they grip the yellow-black banner

Which unfurls, spreading, defiant in the skies.

The flag both of one King and every tanner

Of Highlander unity, that brilliant prize.

 

 

---

 

AN ODE TO KOENG ANDRIK III

 

Hail to you, oh great Koeng Andrik the third!

Awe-stricken history will record your deeds

With amazement at feats never before heard,

At how you planted for Haense success's seeds.

 

Now, in feats of drinking you trump the best,

And from ashes you've built our new city great.

You can wield a sword like a man possessed,

And it was your peace that saved your loyal state.

 

So for that, you have Haense's gratitude;

And with that, my humble ode now does conclude.

 

 

---

 

THE PRIKAZ

 

Ah, the gleaming Prikaz Palace;

Where songs were sung, a king's ear was lent

Where the finest Carrion Black filled every chalice;

When I recall those time-worn years, I bitterly lament.

I cry fond tears at your cruelest fate,

At your disuse and your neglect.

The last king to stay has left your gate;

So I raise a glass of Carrion Black with old respect

 

 

---

UNTITLED

With the strength of a thousand daemons
The marble crest was clenched
Its razor-sharp tip soaked
With a wet darker than the void
And from that void sprung creation
Anything with meaning and without it
He who weilds it unlimited in ability
Except by his twisted, vile and impure
Or noble, glorious and honest
Creativity, their will to create and
To put themselves through an effort
Sometimes small yet often great
And put a word on that paper

 

---

O FATHER
 

O Father, years have passed since fall of void, 

Yet I am left to sit and weep in prayer 

In days of freedom, Grief I have enjoyed 

Not, for that was the gift you chose to bear.

 

O father, son of the herons marine 

Will you still love me as you once did then? 

To be a stouter son of meager means 

Or born a lesser prince of greater men?

 

O father, torn from life, curse me now, 

words born from an acid, venomous tongue 

Will far outstip those that no longer vow 

To those whom once you genty, softly sung.

 

They say the blood of covenant should wear 

Pains fierce; yet still I weep for water's share

 

 

---

 

THE GOOD MEN
 

I wonder, where have all the good men gone?

I saw them ride unto the setting sun,

One which they would never again see dawn,

Fighting a battle that is still not won.

 

I ask you, where do all the great kings lie?

It is under a pile of ash and ruin

Deathless since they were forced to cast the die,

They lie, resting beside their royal kin.

 

I pray you, where do all the lost souls go?

For we see them no more, eternally

They lie, lost in silver linings of snow.

Lost to wisps of time, waiting, merrily.

 

We wait for when the time should finally bend

To meet again at last: all the good men

 

 

---

 

KATHARINA’S SONG
 

If only the swans were as fair as I,

They could shatter the moon with their beauty,

They could ensnare the mighty lords on high,

They could make Kingsguard flee from duty,

If only the swans were as fair as I.

 

If only the autumn leaves had my grace, 

They’d flutter as if dancers on a stage, 

They’d rustle as if they’d no other place, 

They'd read far more than any written page, 

If only the autumn leaves had my grace. 

 

If only the stormcrows could sing like me, 

They would enchant the creatures of the grove, 

They would lure sailors, like sirens on the sea, 

They would be diamond to all those who rove, 

If only the stormcrows could sing like me.

 

 

---

 

THE SUNSET

I passed through mists, and peered beyond the veil 

To see thee, at least, what seemed to be. 

Towards the earth the sun had set her sail, 

And her beauty almost matched your degree.

 

For first I found the flowering lips of rose 

When, burning bright, a wildfire they blazed. 

How could the setting sun compare to those: 

The memory that shall never be erased.

 

But soon I fell into a tender blue, 

The eyes which could the oceans entire keep. 

How could the sky hold a candle to you, 

When epics could be wrought for those eyes deep?

 

And so I promise: you shall never die 

If here between these sheets of me you'll lie.

 

 

---

 

GODAN’S MUSE
 

I've ventured 'cross some cold, bleak, distant peaks, 

But there is naught to e’er compare to thee. 

The peerless blue above those velvet cheeks: 

The moonlight to calm every stormy sea.

 

I rolled on waves and I’ve seen dawnings fair, 

But their beauty can only ever yield 

To radiance cast by golden strands of hair: 

The sunlight to sow every fallow field.

 

I’ve cleft the ocean twain on mighty ships, 

But thus you made the nightingale cry: 

None could hope to reflect those rosen lips, 

A flower to charm e’ery wandering eye

 

Then, since lands and sky all hold beauty, 

I so conclude that Godan’s muse was thee.

 

 

---

 

THE HOLES OF WINTERTIME
 

Deep in the holes of wintertime I woke 

Next to your side, by a warm fire of oak. 

You whispered so quietly in the cold, 

From your lips wisps of mist did twist and fold.

 

You spoke to me about the spring softly, 

Said it was made by the lord above, for me. 

That he made it so we could gently lie 

Betwixt these hills until one day we die.

 

Hidden way from the warmth of a summer’s 

Sun, away from the march of the dummers’ 

Drums, lying under golden oaken leaves, 

I told you I love you beneath those trees.

 

And yet at last, when the autumn leaves fell 

You said you were no more under my spell 

I thought I’d stay together with you, so fair, 

But you left me there.

 

 

---

 

SOENG KAROSEO

 

A SONG OF CROWS

 

Usaer zezr haulyy haldae haenzi

Wiem hag dercurvsk denraat, huil zwyzi

Padrevar Ybiseo vzrarev kuz koeng

Luzeng weld ag wauldlund: Kholv ag walic

 

They poured ‘cross sea upon coasts haeseni

At dawn slaying the weak and lame, then these

Sons of Iblees set out unto the king

Along woodlands, marshes: cold and soaking.

 

Karos kyghyntae zwyen bottel routae

Karos trazk raez humovsk viktry velyae.

Krusae vatragan ag Godan zakisk:

Kursin ag zvaerd usaer byk drazativsk

 

And as honour demands that war be brought

The crows struck out to seize the victory sought.

Of hearth and faith they were a stalwart shield:

With coats of arms and shining blades of steel.

 

Nat lund vatragano supaes szar triek,

Va rotasseran nie vokja byk tuek

Tamort lafsk hauchoxtzen, lauderre, herzen.

Zejr kvesja, warae laujisk aestbrein

 

Upon the fields of flame their spears did meet

And dawn ‘til dusk no army knew defeat.

There fell warriors great, peasants and lords

Above the mud, where Godan’s heavens poured

 

Wiem mortesk feinvrago, tiz stratlyy rot

Ag zinsk maeno weo fitsk dlum supaes Got

 

They broke the horde, the rivers stained with blood

And sang of men who gave their lives for God.

 

---

THE CHOICE TO SHAPE A FUTURE

In a field way up north, under an old pine tree

There’s a fair blonde girl a-sitting, and it’s there that she should be

Away from all the trouble of the world, all the bother

With the past on the horizon, thinking back of mother.

 

The greatest gifts that a mother ever could give

Are the roots of responsibility, and the ability to live

In freedom of mind and heart, with true independence

And the choice to shape a future, one for our descendants.

 

For twenty-five years now, the fair blonde has been on her own

A time free of bounds and shackles, a time in which she’s grown

As she realizes what it means, that ability to be free

She realizes she’ll have to decide, who she wants to be.

 

She’s got a long history, earned her place in the world

Is proud beyond comparison, keeps her banners unfurled

But history’s behind her, she’s long past the divorce

The banners point to a future, one with her own course.

 

A hardened future surely, for she knows the world is rough

All the more she knows, that to survive one must be tough

She’s seen the friends and foes, who with the time have gone

And for them she made a saying: “The sea bows to none”.

 

So she looks ahead, mind set on her goal

And she’ll build a road toward it, by mountain, river and coal

She’ll walk the path with vigor, all the more if it narrows

Stand fast on it or fall perhaps, reduced to bones and barrows.

 

Then will she triumph, will she stumble? For her it's no surprise

She may fall, be torn apart, but from ashes she will rise!

Indeed so it went in the past, and her task hasn’t forgone her

She remembers these times proudly, for with duty comes honor.

 

She stands, she’ll shape her future, that she rightly trusts

But to do that she must go, for he who rests, rusts

That future may bring its challenges, but stalwart she will tell them

The battlecry that brought her here: the old ‘Krusae zwy kongzem’!

 

---

THE HALFLING

He lives his life
To the fullest without regret
He finds great comfort
In the simple pleasures of it
He seeks no great gains
For twisted benefit
He greets and salutes
Every friend and stranger
He cherishes dearly

That which is worth loving
He chooses silence

Where silence suffices plainly
He celebrates loudly
In the tiniest of triumphs
He chooses not for venture
For he finds value in content
And though his vessel may be small
His soul is mightier and greater

The Halfling.

 

---

TO THE FOES OF HANSETI-RUSKA 

 

To the Foes of Hanseti-Ruska

 

How long have We survived?

How much have We outlived?

Too long, and too much

For any ordinary nation.

 

She is a lasting state,

A fair state, a strong state,

She spreads her wings

Over the Highlander traditions.

 

So hear Us, and hear this,

you who hate Us,

you who fear Us,

you miserable skuke-people,

 

you who would see

Our customs gone

you who would try

To dominate Us:

 

you are not different,

you are not special,

As all others, Haense will outlast you.

your hubris amuses Us!

 

you will soon be dead, 

But you cannot kill Us.

Hanseti-Ruska is one.

Gorm sees your defeat, though you cannot.

 

We spit on you, 

you who are less than filth,

We laugh at your whining,

We take joy from your hate.

 

you who stand against Us:

Good luck to you, for why not?

For neither luck nor skill can defeat

Our nation, destined to last forever.

 

We will never perish,

Because We always persist.

Siegmund's Kingdom is immortal.

Our traditions are everlasting.

 

And what are you?

Poor child, you are skravi.

 

---

LET THE NATION AWAKE

 
Rejoice, my brothers,

Your homeland is free.

My sisters, do you feel her soul?

Do you know that she is reborn?

Do you sense it in your heart,

Do you taste her words,

See her burst from the break of dawn?

 

She loudly proclaims -

Go forth, my crows!

Go forth, my children,

I have scattered your foes!

I have shorn off their fangs,

I have vanquished your woes!

Sigismund's nation, awake!

 

[Tentoa 1991]

An old stone construct of old gazed upon the published poems with intrigue and commented in Its booming voice: "MY WORD. THEY ARE FOCUSING ON THE ARTS. FASHION, PAINTING, POETRY, THEATRE. THE HUMANS HAVE EVOLVED. A CAUSE FOR CELEBRATION."