Dismal Days Poem by Stan Petrovich

All I know is this:
I am the front guard of the glorious country of my birth,
And over mossy berms grow riots in gourds;
I have forgotten the pleasures of mirth,
Having been on my steed,
Going back and forth along the Ill-defined border, many years;
And I have no inkling of freedom,
Only a gatherer of firewood,
Animal skin hoarder.

The fen freezes from December to April,
Then stinks all the summer long.
One day I came across some trackers,
Who hailed me at a distince,
Asking what border I guarded,
My lance pointed at them.
'Pray you, good sirs, heed my warning! '
But they informed me that my Kingdom was now defunct,
An old dream, an empty path.
Lowering my weapon then, weeping,
Pouring tears through my meaningless laugh.