The Passion And The Song Poem by Peitho Enthermos

A weary soldier heard a call,
And it wasn't the brays of guns in the evenfall.
But the salubrious chantey from the distant sea,
Sanguine about a surmised victory.

Her blood is still tacky, marking every road.
On her hands and knees she goes away from this nefarious epoch.
And in every pace she makes, she leaves behind a thousand words.
It is not the cry of every man, but a solemn orison of the clock.

It was a Hosanna, that every maiden sings;
A Hosanna, that every mother brings.
It is an esoteric gnosis every one strives to comprehend.
Aye! 'Tis the melody I chose to play, my friend.

Today, the freemen heard no call,
But the wails of their children from the pitfall.
No prayer ever pleased Him any more.
It hurts to listen to their dolor.

What is with the choir's forlorn countenance?
Why? The olden is old, the golden is gold.
Where is the future, the heroes dreamed of once?
For why will they be heroes and be called brave and bold?

'Carry the pain of the people with you, ' the Son heard His Father's call;
And it wasn't the squall of wars you hear from wall to wall.
But the salubrious chantey from a distance,
Sanguine about a surmised chance.

It was a Hosanna, that every maiden sings;
A Hosanna, that every mother brings.
It is an esoteric gnosis every one strives to comprehend.
Aye! I chose to carry the cross with me, my friend.