Thunder pounds through my heart,
Lightning jagged the skies,
Sable heavens open to its final disgrace,
But I alone knew its victor who.
The birds sang him praise.
In spite heaven’s fall,
Tho fire of hell yearns his beard,
No matter flame destroys his valor.
But I alone knew his godly might.
And I alone felt the ardent love of his manhood.
And who am I speaking of?
None but the savior you all love.
He is your man,
Man above men.
And my man, I pride to say,
My man of glory.
The King, my Lord.
And if you would not believe me,
As the wisest would tell thee,
But I swear on my mother’s death,
How lovely his passion for me.
No matter, I said.
What stays is his memorie.
On second thought perchance,
The Creeps whom wants his head,
Oh, burn them! Take them out!
Cruelty, disgrace, violence and shame.
Why my Lord? Why Him of all else?
Power-hungry, thy souls in Hell,
Halt! I beg thee enough!
The King, My Lord!
My Love, my hope!
‘Tis not the time of his defeat,
Not in any hour of this world.
Peace and growth life hath seen,
In this valley o’ goodness our Man reigned;
We love thee, Oh King!
In our hearts, ye remain unfaltering!
And whence they came, as My King expected,
Like Aruka the Empress once said:
“I came from the Faraway, thou shall kneel down before me,
I, Aruka, the Empress tells of power and beauty!
You, the King I doubt the might!
But thou cast all ill-mouthed of speaking heresy.
Thou point at ‘em, and proved thy wisdom.
Thus, a pleasure to his kingdom.”
And it was done.
The eyes of my Dear King hath seen a new flesh,
Not of the weak, not of the meek.
Fair and Wise lady warrior, I beg thee mercy upon me!
I am in misery, a raging green of jealousy,
Why thou?
Milord, what hap my heart?
Forget me not, a love that transcends all that is beyond.
My soul, to which cursed itself of losing thy shadow;
Bear a moment with me, and I shall die with favour.
Unknown, you fancy green serpent-like gazes?
Tight-lipped mouth that speaks of heroic legions?
Pale-white skin glowing in the moonlight?
Divine strength of lady warriors?
Ah! And those breasts of ever a-flow fertility?
Where doth I stand then?
On the green grass of envy,
of jealousy,
of hatred.
And t’was not me at fault.
On my deathbed, never blame me.
The bard whose soft voice lulls me to peace,
I do not feel shame.
Tho’ both sleeps entwined on that nostalgic master’s bed
I do not swallow in grief,
But pray the oceanic creature fall from grace!
