Thursday, February 19, 2015
Blood Of Eternity
An eternal void concentrates inside,
Like a fountain of the blessings,
Glimpsing into the usage of english men
Who roam the centuries of finiteness,
An eternal season is back to the city.
Weeping, championing, through disasters,
A weeper is dressed in gold,
The tramp of hooves is aback,
Metal tankards fill the room of feet
And arms in dislodged fashion.
This mass grave is a void to be filled
By the rest of humanity.
Do not hide it from our sons,
And do not feed it to the graveyard
Speaking ill of men who answer,
You are now weeping anything.
The usage of ships is the hidden factor,
Our foremost hero of the heightened spirit,
Standing there weeping tears of blood.
Topic(s) of this poem: blood