Bard

The story told in furrowed fields,
where hearts fell fully silent,
and blood dropped slow caressing,
as soul in soil did drench.
Sharp ash on cloud becoming,
the bard walked lightly on
the  minds and limbs of history;
the song was sung profound.
In crackled fire the day did end,
the burning pyres of hell,
as time wrapped cloak around itself;
just stories left to tell.
And in the ancient wanderings,
the tales were stacked and held,
that we could be reminded;
our past could be revealed.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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