StrideRider

    That days may come when coarsest soldier,
    Rough-handed plowman, warm-eyed wife
    may scratch their small poems
    into the dust or the cliff-face
    with a charcoal stick
    that was once an enemy mast.

    If a poet stand up now,
    let him be a warrior poet,
    Bringing words to raise dead comrades,
    Halter enemies, cajole turncoats.

    No Season for Poets
    This is no season for poets.
    It is a time for warriors, doers.
    When deeds are counted in sword notches.
    Killers felled, hills taken, allies rescued,
    Strongholds overrun.

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    StrideRider

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    Habbo Created On:
    Jan 4, 2008
    StrideRider
    [USSR] - Private
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