Pink moon
berserk
with desire
night wind
wolf songs
shields down
dirge of death
swords sheathed
axes hung
on a twisted
linden tree branch:
be speckled jewels
of death,
earth moist
with the stench
of tired
bewildered
men
their skin
like rows
and rows
of
blood sheets
an invitation
to gore
to putrid
dreams
of war
to scars,
their minds
infected
with the sorrows
of their kill.
Do they dream
of glory
in Valhalla
or the winter
snow
of a far off
home
where the hearth
is kept
and sheep sleep
neath a dog’s
sharp eye,
children lay
tucked
in a warm bed
of straw
warmed
by their mother’s
tender breast?
Soon the sound
of ships
will waken
their heavy
sullen
bodies
and like
dead souls
they’ll plod
a heavy march
to board
to sail
to row
toward
another
day
another shore
far off
in the Ruse
and if the gods
permit
perhaps
to the arms
of a gypsy queen
adorned
in gold
flashing
a gold tooth
and her womanly wears
for all to see.
duopoetico 