A knight’s Remorse

Leave me be bright sun.

Do not cast your brightness upon me.

Spare me the visage of yonder fields,

that I might not see the truth in your dawn.

I shun the sight of steeds and knights,

of footman slain upon a wicked battlefield,

their ends befouled by the chaos of foreign Lords and Kings.


Mine eye water at the memory of their deaths,

of our Lords and Kings’ pomp and circumstance,

of their hasty promises made to rally young and bold,

to serve them in the name of righteous holiness.


March on brave sun,

and thaw the world of their murderous plots if you must,

but do rise upon me and think me healed a better man.

I am a wasted warrior,

and have no stomach for what lies beyond your dawn.


Spare me also the comfort of thy warm embrace,

thy sheltering shield,

let me toil in the chill of your misty morning’s shadows

amid shades of my own tears.

For I am saddened at the loss of my fallen comrades

and my heart weighs heavy with the burden.


Lo, if I had but a pebbles’ weight of courage,

one chance to make anew my life

and save those lost here,

I would have laughed aloud at my Liege’s call to war and shouted,

“follow him not dear men,

he is but a mortl man,

lost in the granduer of his greed.” 


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