The Sage (Verse Vi, The 'Dark' Speaketh) Poem by Warren Atherton

The Sage found himself in a lowly-lit cave
In some dank subterranean gorge.
All about him were bones in this skeletal grave,
To remind of the devils’ own scourge.

He’d fallen quite hard but had broken no bones
As the ‘over-growth’ hampered descent,
Both arms lacerated from sharp flints and stones
And the last of his energy spent.

“The conquest of Tillanho has but begun”,
Spoke a voice that the Sage recognized.
“Your feeble attempts on a war we have won
Are no match to the ‘Dark’ powers size.

You have but one choice then palaver is done,
So you listen and hear of me well.
You’ll have no place to hide and have nowhere to run,
All resistance the Dark Lord will fell.

The Elves will be crushed with one sweep of his hand
And your weak human-kind all be slain,
That wing-bearing horse which now sleeps on the sand
In Albraith, will know nothing but pain.

That vermin Osedicus who flies to the East
Was consumed by the perilous sea.
Proclaim to the Elven, ‘The time of the Beast? ’
It lies rotting in sick malady.

Your own powers diminish with each passing hour
And the Staff of old Merlin is mine.
Dispossessed of all magic, relieved of its’ scour,
Of its’ lustre there’s now not a sign.

You’ve nowhere to go anymore my old friend,
You are friendless and now all alone.
Of your only volition give up the defend,
Let the seeds of alliance be sewn.'