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Friday, 20 August 2010

Othala



Call of the breeze.
Horses flee.
The sky shouts huge,
thunder new.
Come into view,
an army spread,
fierce and dark
boiling red!!!

Fury swords,
Backs of metal
helmets horned
.. some..
not manufactured!
Made by the hand,
By young and old men.
Gold and silver, running belt
shouting men... wearing pelts.

Dead are burning
smoke riding high
black collumns plough the sky.
The dragons and woodcraft,
gleaming rich,
cooking barley and animal meat.
Hungry, starving, chewing raw
some like it that way
and falling seasonal days.

Night is near,
dreadful start,
look to the West...
watchout for the stars.
They make masters
and lords they do,
taking plenty in rivers
sleep is over for you.

He pulled my hair.
He bit my neck,
the angry lover
of the big broad chest!
You've never seen
so much mean...
vicious warrior men
around the princesses
Vikings came
tearing strength.
I am a Saxon woman,
at their mercy, yes.

My home, my family, my land...
blood, graves, war and children ground,
Its where I belong,
where I belong..
where I die.
In the fire,
follow my dead husband,
at his pyre funeral.
A warrior's sight.
A warriors sigh.
The ravens fly...
They fly.

by
Ragna.

I originally called this "Othala" to talk about land and what it means really. I wrote this a year ago after recovering a severe illness, after having been through a tough period and also when I was at my most vulnerable. I'd been wrong about things. This poem was inspired by little except expression so it's anger or fear.

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