The Children of Horen

[tcs_tonsils_ 2829]

The Children of Horen
 

 

By
Borris Iver Kortrevich
ON THIS, 14TH OF OWYN'S FLAME, 1917

 

 

The rivers run with crimson hue,
Drowning all with ruby spew,
Gush now forth in aboding torment,
Streams the fiery, fierce torrent.

 

What tear-filled cries fall on petrified soil,
The burdens of our hands that toil,
Their wretched mouths spurn idle hope, 
Choking out life, the noose-tied rope!

 

Do the words of the once peaceful bring only idleness?
Has wickedness brewed only feigned righteousness?
Their realms have ushered a lustful hand,
Succumbing to bloodshed’s caustic command.

 

Fate conspires her doom-laden appetite to be fed,
And feasts upon those too foolish to maintain their head.
Darkness prevails following ghastly false ambition,
Self-gratification and a pride-inducing expedition.

 

Scarlet ichor runs when pale bodies lay,
Mothers and Fathers, Brothers and daughters,
The children of Horen weep from where they were slain,
Their blood cries out, yet its tones fall on deaf ears. 

 

Alas, it grows late, and the hour draws near.
Till at last, the gnawing dawn rears,
The swift blades shall fall,
And the deep earth shall wet from the vitality of man. 

SIGNED,
Lord Borris Iver Kortrevich, 
Valtakossar of the Order of Queen Maya and the Lily
 

Spoiler

Painting by Joseph Mallord William Turner