Poetry Contest 2007 - submissions

[Ludens]

11# The last survivor

The sun reflects on the ruins of the city,
long gone, long abandoned, long forgotten.
The sun reflects on the ruins of the city,
on the memories, testimonies of better times.

In the middle of all this devastation, stand I,
Long gone, long abandoned, long forgotten.
While I'm lost in memories of better times,
I cast my shadow on the ruins of the city.

And into unconsciousness of the world I fade,
oblivion my prize for their glory.

[Ludens]

12# Untitled

I like to watch and see those drops of dew glistening,
playing in those endless fields of dark blue.
If I could stare into those crystal depths for whole my life,
not doing anything else, but gaze.
Every second.
Every minute.
Nothing else.
If only I could

remain in this dwelling dream deep blue.
Fill me.
Eyes, embrace me.

Why does a person have to blink?
Cause that fraction of second it feels like it is
the day
the sun

stopped

shining.

Hollow eyes can't fill me,
Hollow voracious eyes.

[Ludens]

13# The Peasant's Tale

Here begins the Peasant's Tale,
a gruesome story of chain and mail.
A tale of courage, a tale of might,
a tale of what falls off tonight.

Here comes the lord, of this fief,
a lord in name but really a thief.
He plunders and steals, lies and deals,
but gives no thought to who works his fields.

We harvest his grain, and work his farm,
while he sits in his castle, away from harm.
We wash his clothes and cook his meals,
yet he gives no thought to how we feel.

Fed up are we, he cares not for our plight,
we shall plan our revenge on him tonight.
We shall kill him, he shall die,
No one will miss him, no one will cry.

A battle rages, ten days hence,
our lord worries not for he knows how to fence.
Provided of course, his armor was strong,
but it shan't be, for we have planned this long.

Our lord and a soldier, locked in combat,
one sharp blow and the other won't come back.
They fight and rage, swords clashing with steel,
both fight with almost religious zeal.

But our lord shall fall, make no mistake,
for we cut up his armor and glued it with paste.
The solider strikes hard, and our lord stumbles,
the least of his problems for his armor crumbles.

He lifts his sword, for one more blow,
our lords arm is lopped off, a sight to behold.
It falls to the ground with a dreadful thud,
covered in mud, covered in blood.

He dies slow, our revenge is sweet,
a fitting end a tyrant should meet.
No fingers were pointed, we shan't worry,
for here ends the tale of the peasants story.