sir vagrant

May I never leave the bleak side of the hill
Where the wheat lies solemnly, plastered by frost.
Though thoughts stray with the flickers of flame, keep still
On the slope and may the chill sharpen my watch
Beyond the hill, surveying all that is lost.

Those on the other side of the hill are safe
From the front lines, from any first encounters.
I cannot deny flirting with being safe
But safety never won the needed battle.
On the bleak side, danger removes all the blurs.

In the tent covered in furs resides a throne.
The warrior kneels before it timidly
For the blood on his hands are men’s and his own.
Though the blood is fresh and sticky of deep hue,
The royal hand seizes it intimately.

I have camped on the bleak side of the hill but
Pour cement on my tent pegs before they fly.
I know that my strength and resolve is not cut
Out for what I must face. See that plot right there?
Bury me there, on the bleak side, when I die.