Saran’s Plea

 

Petulant King,

sword sheathed and silent,

time wearies thine restless mind,

turns thy good-nature distant to all

but lands ripe for harvest.

I know thine heart dear husband,

thy lust for Godfrey’s crusades.

Thy seek the booty of campaigns upon

battlefields rich with the blood of

thine enemy, Alexis.

Thou cannot hide it.

I have seen thy moods swing lately,

thy temper shorten,

thy enraged fits and boastful

threats heaped upon those nearest thee.

No treaty will stay thy hand,

no precious promises of peace,

whose boundaries of stone and earth

stand sentinel before thy lustful urges,

can stop thee.

Lo do I hold thee close to my bosom,

wishful that my love can sway thee

and stay thy savagery,

I know it not enough to win thy favor.

Thou will do what thy desire and

take sword in hand once more.

But I beg thee dear King,

think of our son,

thine heir.

Would thou place him perilous

before charging hooves and cursing men,

upon a wild steed wielding mace and blade

in thine honor?

What glory is buried within such folly?

What recompense?

He is but a tender child,

short of years and battle knowledge.

Would thou make me grievous,

despondent,

spiteful over his return

upon limping steed and ruined shield?

Raise thy banner if you must,

seek that which torments thee

and boils thy blood,

but I beg thee dear husband,

spare him,

leave me our son.

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