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Sunday, May 27, 2007

Belfast's War : Part 3


The air was frosty with signs of fight,
The sky was a ghastly blue tinged with white,
The waters of Sheer were crimson-red still,
The Soldiers of Wallaha were all killed.
The warriors of Morcha were ready to burn down
All of the empire for the king of Sioune,
They, however, faced stiff resistance
From the forces of Wallaha’s persistence.
And now, their armies numbered five hundred
And they seemed to be the Devil’s kindred.

A hundred were posted in the city of Sheer,
To boast their victory, to instill fear,
Another had gone to the far north,
Feeding on a lavish meal of broth,
A third had gone to the extensive foothills
Hoping for many more kills.
The fourth hundred had gone to Sioune
To crow their victory to the Crown,
The last of the army stood on guard,
They were the ones that had fought hard.

But now, the hundred that had gone northward
Felt the prick of Belfast’s sword,
And when they set forth, full of gaeity,
They numbered hardly eighty,
The prince’s sword had struck down nine,
Ne’er in his life had he felt so fine,
But he knew, now was the hard part,
This was where the War of Pang would start.

“The warriors are near, the warriors are near,
The warriors are near so be with fear.”
They cut a crooked path through the forest,
Their moods were worse than the worst tempest,
They walked till the bridge of Pang was in sight,
Looking at it’s guards, they knew there was a fight.

“We shan’t be barred by snow, hail or sleet,
We shall fight to the last till Death greets.”
The sentries of Pang had prepared for the fight
And now they stood, under the sun’s light,
They numbered hardly five and forty,
They were, all of them, praying for victory.

On seeing the warriors, they gave a signal,
The archers on the trees caught the signal
And let down a shower of arrows on the fools,
Blood began to collect in small pools.
The warriors looked up, returning the fire,
The archers on the trees began to tire,
One by one, the archers fell,
Who was winning? No one could tell.
The sentries of the bridge charged the strangers
Unmindful of their own present danger,
The fight lasted for a good many seconds,
For many a man, Death beckoned.
Slowly, the warriors progressed to the bridge,
But the prince was nowhere ‘pon the bridge,
The scales fell down from the villagers’ eyes,
And a lone villager was about to cry,
“The Prince of Sheer has not kept his word,
I see not the glint of his sword,
While we face this situation dour,
The prince has left us in this darkest hour.”
He was wrong, he knew it,
His eyes, on seeing a horse, lit,
But it was just too late,
The villagers could not change their fate,
The warriors made it to the bridge,
The villagers lost their coveted bridge,
The few remaining fought the fools,
The warriors were like stiff mules,
Twenty of them sprang across,
Suddenly, the bridge gave a mighty toss,
It swayed and slashed and then fell down,
Killing the last of those forces of Sioune.

But one man made it to the other side,
The women-folk did not have a place to hide,
The warrior raised his sword, a vision of fear,
Little did he know, the Prince was here.
From the other bank, the prince shot an arrow,
The warrior fell with a sickening sorrow,
He fell down with a ghastly thud,
The last of the warriors was dead.
The prince turned around, his heart was lead,
He knew that this was his tenth head.
He observed the bulwark broke
And the ground with blood soaked,
Trhe villagers had done all they could
And they were victorious in this feud.
A great weight was off their hearts,
Relief was creeping in, part by part.

But the prince’s brow was troubled still,
His heart cried out in a voice shrill,
“Go to Sheer, O Master,
Find out what happened to your father,
Wait not for water or food,
Swiftly and smartly, go through the woods.”

The prince made his way through the woods
Waiting not for water or food
And went on the road to Sheer,
Throughout the journey he heard Morcha’s jeer,
And thoughout the journey, he cursed Morcha
Whose forces were defeated by the merest militia.
His heart thrilled with a joy primeval,
Belfast, the young leader of the upheaval.

He rode on though the bloody night
Until the ruins of Sheer were in sight,
His heart stopped dead at the sight he saw,
Atop the palace was the flag of Morcha.
Just then and there his hope was killed,
He knew his father was captured or killed,
The latter, he hoped, with a gloomy frown,
For, even Hell was better than the prisons of Sioune.
All the signs said his father had surrendered,
His hope was wrong, he wasn’t murdered,
Into the gaping jaws of Death he had to go,
To Sioune he had to go.

His plans were, however, grounded,
For, warriors of Morcha had him surrounded.
The Sword was raised for the last time ever,
Arrows vanished from the quiver
And nine bodies fell, a few more as well,
And those that remained were in living hell,
Finally, a warrior struck at Belfast’s head,
The Prince of Sheer, clutching his sword, panted
And drove the blade through the warriors heart.

“You are the twentieth man I’ve killed”, Belfast said,
then he twitched and lay dead.

1 comment:

Theoden said...

Couldn't let a single post in my blog remain without my comment.

Well, this ends Belfast's sorry story.