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Nubia
By The Stranger.
oh land of gold where eastern promises
lie concealed beneath lost sand and
forgotten words are spoken by the wind
near crooked palms in bone-dry oases
upon twisting roads where only caravans
of silhouettes still travel the echoes
from extinct cities resonate weakly in
the prison of slumbering sand as a psalm
above the canopies of redly reflecting
pyramids in the clear morningsky when
the sun brings a prayer in the shrubs
at last songs are sung in the breath
of the old folk and once more the land
shall whisper over the sahara
The start of Summer
by Aenarion
I can hear the summer breeze,
when the frost starts to unfreeze.
The wind spreads upon the plain,
full of hope and full of gain.
The sounds of joy are in the air,
with prosperity everywhere.
And as the sun rises high,
The stars are dimmed from the sky.
The sweet sound of waters free,
fills every stone and every tree.
Whilst the hills stand tall and proud,
higher up than any cloud.
I can see trees sighing softly,
in appearance looking lofty.
With leaves so bright and fair,
swaying lightly in the air.
All around these wide lands,
are untouched by mortal hands.
Although ever rich and blissful,
when summer is so joyful.
The Ride of the Chevaliers
By Ironsword
The thunder of a thousand hooves,
The deep peal of drum,
They swagger past in snaking lines,
Their great march begun.
Their banners flutter noiselessly,
Atop the forest of spears,
Their steeds champ and whinny,
Flicking back their ears.
Armagnacs, Lombards and Gascons,
Livery gleaming bright,
Silver armoured champions,
Young aspirant knights.
To the field then my men-at-arms,
To answer Henrys’ call.
To drive them back to the channel,
Bootstraps, carts and all.
France has mustered and risen to fight,
And all her sons have come,
For this wondrous and mighty host,
Agincourt has begun.
Wenche Wisdom
By MountainTroll
A mede halle full of thirsty brutes,
is oft a place of ill repute.
But one cold night, I did see,
three men ponder what true prosperity be.
"A field of green! Eden's own bounteous land!"
Said a yeoman, grasping his ale with a calloused hand.
This followed a merchant, in soft velvet robes,
"Ha! A pile of gold is best to behold!"
The third, with brushes and palette by his mug,
whispered, "My own time and visions…
No longer to slave over others commissions."
And I, but a taverne wenche, knew how wrong they all said,
when later I tucked my wee bairn into bed.
They patted my cheeks, as I kissed each golden hed,
and listened as Paternosters were said.
I wondered how long it would take men to discern,
that Prosperity is but to love, and be loved in return.
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