RAMBLINGS

No tale is this of courtly love

No tale is this of heavn above
No courtly love will be fulfilled
Instead, red blood will nigh be spilled.
The story I will soon unfold
Is timeless, tragic, often told
The knight in armour, brave and bold
Seeks only maidens love to hold
The anguished heart, the lovers plight
The endless night, the bright starlight
The chilly dawn, the wistful sigh
Tears of ice Enough! I cry.
Id rather tell a modern tale
Where commonsense and love prevail
Of laughter, joy, and brightest hope
No need for lovers to elope.
Can this be done? I ask of you,
And if it can, then tell me, do!
Ill write this story nonetheless
Though mystified, I will confess
How pen to paper does its work
How in my mind these tales do lurk
They have a life all of their own
Once fertile seed is gently sown.
A tree of Truth? Perhaps, perhaps,
Or wicked lie, which darkly flaps
With ragged wings and draggled tail
Past ghostly ship with blackest sail
Towards its nest of stolen young
Whose morning song will neer be sung
For down this vultures throat theyll be
One swallow Snap! ...with greatest glee.
A ghastly feast, yet this is Life
No words of mine will end this strife
For Death, we know, fulfils its part
Without it, Life could never start.
Deny the truth, we can, and will,
We tell our thoughts, Oh please, be still!
We plead for stories, spells and gods
We seek to beat eternal odds.
How can this be, I hear you cry,
That life must end and I will die?
Well now my story I can tell:
There is no heaven, soul, nor hell.
With feeble fingers, back quite bent
With rhyming broken, almost spent
My greying hair and faded skin
Are witness to our darkest sin.
We think we are above the law
We pay the rich and rob the poor
We trample all who stand before:
If they say nay, we go to war.
Yet all we have and all we are
Once came from far beyond our star.
When silence reigns in endless night
A universe of frozen light
What matters then our vanity?
Our endless greed and cruelty?
Im almost done, my reader dear;
Perhaps you now will shed a tear
Then think upon my words of ire
And think upon the funeral pyre
Where all is dust from burning fire
And tell me then, am I a liar?
Inge Meldgaard, 2014