Smoke rising in the distance Transforms into ghostly shapes History's bastard children Inconvenient mysteries. Wheat-sprayed fields of gold, Idylls of a childhood spent In occupation's shadow. The conqueror ever at hand. Hard enough to be a peasant: Without the moods of kings who Pass without a by-your-leave Devastation in their wake. Why not marry a shepherd Happiness is meat on the table Oh no, your calling is to Bear the torch of liberation. What is a girl to do, when Her times call for measures dire ? Take up sword, shield and ride, it's Better than churning butter. No need for visitations, Nor angels, saints imploring. They can't compare to the itch To quit a sleepy village. O country lousy with foes And their accents dissonant God bids me to drive them out With the fire of purity. The prince wrung his hands, princely. There's reason in her madness. And some tale about a maid? Anyways, it's just a girl. How they would rob us, and then Install some slob on our throne. This fille could be the trick to Touch a flame to the kindling. Before a keep forbidding Lunging at the foe she cries: Advance, and the men outdo One another to impress. Strife's hazards and rewards, trump The extremes of the spinning wheel. Preordained, that she must fall As all by gods forgotten. Now that won't do, virgin girl. You've shorn your locks and traded Dolls for the business of men And made a muss of our war. For the king you crowned, even Success makes of you a threat None but witch or whore go where Kings, lords and horsemen daren't. Wood readied before judgment, Auto-da-fé, ink still wet. An unjust yet tidy end For she who inflamed the land.
©2011 - C Ewen Mac Millan