Monday, December 12, 2005

Fair Rosamund
by Jules
Fierce Albion
Born on the hostile plain
Son of ferocious migrants from northern swamps;
Lord of the Lombards with piercing eyes of keenest blue
And skin scorched hard and brown by relentless summer rays,
And winter's bitter wrath:
Did you not see on the banks of the Danube
The fair child Rosamunda
Flaxen haired and sweet as a windflower
In her home-spun dress tinged with the juices of wìld berries?
And did you not for desire of her
Sweep down with your fearless warriors like a crashing tidal wave,
Engulfing the Gepidae settlements 0f her fore-fathers,
Killing her beloved father and uncle
And humiliating her grandfather
The king?
How triumphantly you carried her away
Lashing your coal black steed,
Followed by your warriors galloping up behind
With their precious plundered trophies
And decapitated heads,
Riding through the thick forests 0f the towerering snow-capped Alps
Back to your kingdom at sunset.
Alboin. Did you not see in the pining sky,
Bleeding violets and roses mourning the fate of your sweet bride,
A breathing premonition of your own
Dark death?


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