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To king and lord these simple words I tell,
and not the first am I to share this thought,
so hear these words, I beg you listen well,
then to war and arms I ask you please go NOT:
With blade of sword ten men can I destroy,
yet true victory lies far from near,
with speak of tongue one man can I employ,
and in my heart true victory lies dear.
Towering cities shine with steel,
useless places, depended wheel.
Flying monsters, floating terrors,
the history books so filled with errors.
What a waste of time,
what a waste of time!
Ancient temples buried deep,
ruins of medieval keep.
Tourists visit battlegrounds,
while still the horn of battle sounds.
What a waste of time,
what a waste of time.
The Winter Prophecy
Written at age 16
As in the summer the sky is blue,
and Autumn leaves will fall
the Winter brings the cold anew,
and thundering clouds will call.
The Spring, new life it always brings,
and around the cycle goes.
From Winter's end, the land it sings,
away the Winter snows.
The seasons, yes, they'll come and pass,
but the Winter long will be.
For with the cold, the clouds will mass
in the future that I see.
Across the land great storms will rage,
and sounds of war be heard,
great armies on the plains engage,
the cries of hate absurd.
So sad it is that men be such
that greed should rule their lives,
to win the war but lose so much
their young and weeping wives.
The rains will fall, the lands will flood,
the cities will be no more.
Upon the streets men shed their blood,
the price of futile war.
There will come a time when the crying ends,
and the Winter will pass away,
the time for men to make amends,
and strive for a better day.
An Open-handed Fist
(My personal favourite - written at Age 18)
They wisdom's hardened fist in logic hail,
but in the rhetorician's face will fail.
And though my friends are virtuous and kind,
with honest tongues true words are left behind.
Athenian men to war by words are led,
and find their truths when left to count the dead.
And when a faith finds home in spoken word,
the wisest see the deafness that they heard.
Those who justice to their cause would seek
must learn to like the cunning serpent speak.
And more to win, must craft their speeches whole,
and from their audience capture heart and soul,
wield with pride a senatorial wit,
as of the victors countless tales are writ.
Some honored more than truth their spoken art,
as aging bach'lors might chide a lovesick heart,
but when returned the vote is 'yea' or 'nay'
the eloquently spoken win the day.
And left are those sagacious sad old men:
The owls who perished in the fox's den.
How shall we fight our cause when foxes rule,
for surely ours is right and theirs is cruel?
Should we persuade and lift with open hand,
or beat with fist the indecisive band?
The learn'd will always follow reason's call,
the rest by fabled foolishness will fall,
unless we too should play the serpent's game,
and in its mastery fight for reason's name.
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