My Lost Sons

In days of old we stood as men,
Sturdy trees growing from bare rock
Grew tall and strong, so strong
That we could never fall.

We wielded swords,
Looked dragons in the eye.
Embraced their fire without a cry:
We were the Lords, we were the Lords.

We did not fear death.
Those sons who couldn’t follow…
For them there was no shame,
They used their dying breath
To sing poems worthy of our name.

And now… Now that the land is fertile,
Made fertile with our sweat and tears.
Look!
Only a tiny seedling grows,
Confirming all our darkest fears.
Never to be full grown.
Oh children of Love, where have you flown?

You dream we fought with golden arrows
Never!
Our weapons, raw with blood,
Were made to last forever!

Progeny! Hear my rallying cry!
Greet death – do not be shy!

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