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A Selection of Poetry from Borris Iver Kortrevich - Vol. 22


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Selection of Poetry - Volume Twenty-Two

On this 8th of VYZMEY AG HYFF, 462 E.S.

 


 

Aloft the County wall

 

Aloft the county wall I stand,

Gazing out o'er the land.

All is still, save for the rustle

Of leaves in the gentle breeze.

The sun hangs low in the sky,

Casting a pink and orange glow

O'er the scene before me.

 

In the distance, a church bells chimes,

The sound echoing through the valley.

A dog barks, and a cow lowing

Are the only other sounds I hear.

 

The peace and quiet of this place

Fill me with a calm serenity.

Though all around me is bustle and noise,

Here I am at peace.

 


 

Dead and Gone

 

Your time has come to an end-

You were a bright light in our lives-

But now you're dead and gone-

We'll never see your smile again-

Your laugh was like music to our ears-

But now it's silent forever-

You were the life of the party-

But now you're gone, and we're left behind.

 

We'll never forget you-

You were one of a kind.

 

But now you're dead and gone-

And we'll never be the same.

 


 

Terror, a Tyrant’s Weapon

 

Terror is a tyrant's tool,

A weapon of oppression and fear,

A way to control the population

And drown out any hope of cheer.

 

For in the tyrant's grasp,

The people are denied their rights,

Their freedoms, their will,

Their lives left in a plight.

 

The tyrant commands the masses,

Claims all is for their own good,

But in truth, the sole purpose

Is power, and only power understood.

 

Fear is the tyrant's game,

A game of manipulation,

Creating an atmosphere of dread

Where no voice of hope can be heard in the nation.

 

The tyrant uses terror as a tool,

To keep the people in distress,

Out of fear of retribution

The people can do nothing but repress.

 

With terror, the tyrant rules,

Able to control the people's minds,

To make them believe they are nothing

And that their lives are not worth their time.

 

The tyrant has no mercy

For those who oppose his will,

He will crush anyone who speaks out,

And keep his power firmly still.

 

Terror is a tyrant's tool

To keep the people in their place,

To keep them believing

That resistance is a fool's race.

 

But no one can keep the people down

For hope and courage will still arise,

And the tyrant's reign will crumble,

As the people reclaim what they prize.

 


 

Last Resorts

 

The last resorts of hope, so fleeting and frail,

Are a source of solace, yet also of wail.

A final attempt to salvage what remains,

A faint glimmer of light, in the darkness of pain.

 

The desperation of the soul, in its darkest hour,

A plea for deliverance, in a time of power.

A last chance to restore, what was once so strong,

A desperate attempt, to right what was wrong.

 

The last resorts of hope, so fragile and thin,

A desperate grasp, for a chance to begin.

A last attempt to reclaim, what was once lost,

A desperate attempt, to regain what was tossed.

 

The last resorts of hope, so fragile and faint,

A chance to redeem, what was once so quaint.

A final attempt to restore, what was once pure,

A desperate attempt, to endure.

 


 

Glass Souls

 

Glassy souls, achromatic and still,

Inert and silent, yet alive with will.

Their luminous auras, faint and meek,

Glimmer in the dark, yet never speak.

Tranquil and serene, they drift and sway,

Unconcerned with the passing of day.

 

Ethereal and vaporous, they linger on,

Their placid forms, forever drawn.

 

Mutable and elusive, they are hard to find,

In the murky depths of the human mind.

Their spectral forms, like mist in the air,

Are often seen, yet never there.

Effulgent and diaphanous, they are hard to touch,

But their presence is felt, like a gentle brush.

 

The glassy souls, so enigmatic and still,

Are forever here, yet never will.

 


HIS LORDSHIP, Borris Iver Kortrevich, KML

Battle-Bard of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl, Knight-Bard of the Order of the Crow, and Court-Poet of Hanseti-Ruska.

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