Inventing the Song

Neglected and tattered, his banner of love
Once shattered the death in dead men’s bones,
Then strutted the bone-dust with spirit-laced song–
Where has the wind it ran upon gone?

Trapped in the lungs of the timid renewed,
The violent gust is reduced to a hum.

But creatures must ever take note of the tune.

That lilting breeze holds a shattering hum
Reserved for when fire and prayers are renewed.

Then torchmen will speak till timidity’s gone
And turn to the standard, inventing the song:
The gust grows in shadows and blows through men’s bones
To mend what was tattered, his banner of love.

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The Loxley Accent

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Prince John: Bring Sir Robin food! At once, do you hear? Such impudence must support a mighty appetite.
Robin: True enough, your Highness. We Saxons have little to fatten on by the time your tax gatherers are through.
Prince John: Do you feel you are overtaxed?
Robin: Overtaxed, overworked and paid off with a knife, a club or a rope.
Marian: Why, you speak treason!
Robin: Fluently.