EntropySink
Entertainment & Artistry => Words => Topic started by: Ken Fitlike on December 22, 2007, 06:34:11 PM
-
Prince of Troy
Old steel, brittle and worn
Cracks and gives way,
Scoured by vitriol, rended.
But, unlike Prometheus, no titan,
Just a man with one chance and no choice.
His anvil is bare; his hammer silent,
His forge gone cold.
They have become grey ghosts of his:
Crude forms that rudely fail to fill
That empty shape left behind.
The last of the Invergarry blacksmiths is gone.
And the women weep and wash him with their tears
While below, the men wait in sullen gloom
And brood on Corpach, last sojourn of the old Kings.