...and how many brave young men lie upon the cold soil
soaking wet the earth with their blood, so earth will bring
forth more young men giving their lives for others to shed?
We fight freely past the end of what we see to where the
life begins...
*March*
Jan's month has passed and led us.
So has Febuary tormentous.
Marching in March's muddy soil.
We are soldiers and I am their minstrel boy.
The dark nights and rainy days
On England's royal lands.
But courage with us stays
And pride lies within our hands.
Marching in March's muddy soil.
We are soldiers and I am their minstrel boy.
As men of strength, us will hurt no fear.
The sword and shield, our friends they are,
And with joy we will take every scar.
In our eyes you will see no single tear.
Marching in March's muddy soil.
We are soldiers and I am their minstrel boy.
Nights around the fire red
I sing them songs how blood was shed
In glorious battles of our marvellous king,
Of Willaim the Lion, songs I sing.
Marching in March's muddy soil.
We are soldiers and I am their minstrel boy.
*Battlefield*
On Alba's greenest hills our tents are up to put
And bloody lust rules my soldiers' sleepy mood.
Days plenty with preparation for the battle up to come.
Only at night they have muse to think of mother, sister, son.
Lost in thoughts of their own, they sit around the fire red.
I sing songs for them how blood in glorious battles once was shed.
On Alba's greenest hills our tents are up to put
And lust for fight rules my soldiers' waking mood.
Sleeping hardly at night and drinking to forget,
How loves were torn like autumn's leaves for the battle to be set.
My soldiers are strong and their will cannot be broken
As their muscles tense in attention of fight a mighty spell is spoken.
On Alba's greenest hills our tents are up to put
And longing for fight rules my soldiers' wake mood.
Seeing the ennemy approach to the other side of the fields,
Disquietude is laid upon my soldiers brave,
For honor to fight and their royal land to save
They pick up their wide swords and raise their shields.
On Alba's greenest hills our tents are up to put
The fight for glory and honor is my soldiers' mood.
Assaulting in rage, secure of the victory in store,
Franticly my soldiers shout out the war.
*War And Fight*
Men storming at the hills of Alba green,
Swords clashing one to one,
A battle noone ever wanted to have seen,
The first minute a father lost his beloved son.
Raising their swords in agitation, eagerness to fight
They leave their love and hope behind where cannot be light.
With lifted shields and arms they struggle long.
Me, the minstrel, behind the lines, I sing their song.
For they will be strengthened by the meloy's tune,
And we will see our families again in June.
Raising their swords in agitation, eagerness to fight
They leave their love and hope behind where cannot be light.
The first loose their hands, others their feet,
The first wounds are hit, the blood already flows in streams.
And all the fighters are filled with sanguinary greed.
Now, the fight really has begun. It is as it seems.
Raising their swords in agitation and fear to fight
They leave their love and hope behind where cannot be light.
Cruel faces and bloody countenances are flashing, trying to show
How all the fear of death in a man brave may grow.
I will sing for them with a breaking voice, playing my drums,
But I have to watch how everything to an end finally comes.
Still raising their swords in fear of fight
Approaching death bringing love and hope to light.
*Goodman Death*
A field full of soldiers unknown to each other.
Men fighting for their royal lands, fighting one another.
Now the beasts are victorious over the human race
And hardly anyof them has any longer a face.
Screaming for mother to come
On Alba's bloody soils lies her beloved son.
Above the field, the sky darkening with birds black.
Me , the minstrel, along I walk looking for the mine,
But no eye a glance of life shows back.
Goodman Death, they are all thine.
Screaming for mother to come
On Alba's bloody soils was slain her beloved son.
But agony is about to fight its last combat with these lives,
And all the glory, all the honor for which every soldier strives
Lies within Goodman Death's hand
For only he can bring them to the eternal land.
Whispering gently painfully for mother to come
On Alba's bloody soils slain her beloved dying son.
Wounded and struck by the last dagger in the play,
I feel collapsing my muscles, eclipsing my sight.
Falling to the ground I cry for my mother to come on this day
But my strings are broken and it fades, light.
Rattling tears gently painfully for mother to heal
For Alba's fight this summer, and battles eating lives was no deal.
*Last Words*
Autumn's leaves fall on the ground,
A ground soaked with young men's blood.
But all we learnt from wars, all we found
Is a population slightly cut.
Women now storm on the field of Alba's greenest hills.
A deep sadness, affliction is what mothers, sisters and lovers kills.
Fathers, brothers and lovers were torn apart forever.
Paying back their lives, loves and hopes noone can ever.
Count the sons of England who are not afraid to die
Searching for the place where the earth meets the sky.
How many brave young men have to die until we learn,
Learn and understand how much worth is a life to the ones
Who love?
~fin~
Reason for writing:
I love 'The Minstrels Of Mayhem'. I don't know if anyone except for me knows them but I'm kind of dedicated to the ancient world.
I listened to their song 'The Minstrel Boy'. I wrote that poem while listening to this song over and over again.
And one day I'd like to see them performing. I'm really looking forward to it.
Birth sign: Not entered
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View more poems by Cassiopeoa DeVine , Leo( roar!!!).