Warrior’s Cry: A Sonnet
Warrior’s Cry: A Sonnet1 min 238 1 min 238
Winds of turmoil rage daily;
The golden days are a rare sight;
Against the tempest, still I sally;
Never do I, cower in fright.
Swift horses and arrows sharp,
Gather some more, your numbers are few;
Empty words and menace you harp;
Your doom is certain, my blood in lieu.
Fight some more, in the carmine mud;
Cry some more, why the voices abated;
Still in my veins, there is enough blood;
My red lust is not yet sated.
Muster your courage and your weapons grand
Gather ye foes, here I stand, here I stand.