With careful steps I tread the woods
Betwixt the green that all deludes;
In anxious constancy I seek the prey
That might reward the toils of day.
Alas! I recognize that 'tis a sin
To thus engage in such routine;
Yet 'tis our fate that we must feed
On creatures of a diverse breed.
I do perceive how saddening
It is to watch the wretched cling
To feeble life with languid breath
That culminates in silent death.
Voracious need, so brute and vile,
That renders all to Sin servile!
That to protect my kindred's life
I should pursue this heinous strife!
At length I leave the leafy shade
And step into the forest's glade:
A sudden form comes to my view
Amidst the area's grass and dew.
A queer figure: not man nor beast
That makes my wonderment persist;
The rear against a trunk reclines,
The shape and soul seem to decline.
The sunken eyes seem to repose
On ashen visage most morose;
The haggard lips show trepidation
Of one who fell into damnation.
Dusty robes the form embroider,
Savage hair displays disorder;
Pale hands shiver as if from cold
Or from a tragedy yet untold.
He stares at me yet does not stand,
I grasp the crossbow in my hand;
He is a human: but of different sort,
As if beyond the World's exhort.
At length his voice reclaims its place,
But no light shimmers on his face;
His tone resembles the dying's plead
That swears to God a lasting creed.
"Why dost thou come to dwelling vile,
Where worsens this decaying pile?
If thou dost dread thy heart's degrade,
Do leave at once this sombre glade.
You shain't find here a single peel
With which you may thy want fulfill;
All the ones who hither blunder
Find none but warrior torn asunder."
YOU ARE READING
The Warrior of the North
PoetryA narrative in verse about a warrior who finds himself cast into damnation.
