The Mystic’s Recollection
By Fionn’s table, the Traveller sat
In dreams, though not his own
To gaze below on a tortured land
Of brick and barn and bone,
Where he thought sad thoughts,
It was all he had,
A burden carried sore
That anchored deep
The days passed by
When afflicted cried ‘no more’.
He watched them as they wept by stream
And cradled bloody heads
Or creased in pains of hunger forced
In joyless, sodden beds.
He saw the terror spring to life in empty, haunted eyes
And sickened as the crows swept down
To feed, from cruel skies.
He cringed as every scream rang forth
From small unblinking souls
And plugged his ears against the din
That seeped from bodies cold.
He hugged himself and lay, in dark,
As issue boots clumped by,
The cloven hooves of demon men
With souls both black and dry.
Parched, he drank from muddy pool
To quench the growing pain.
He spat in horror as eyes sought out
The source of crimson stain.
He shook, he shivered, he wept depleted,
He looked to heavens high.
He begged for mercy long forgotten
To tumble forth from bloody sky.
Ignored again, he curled below
The hawthorn, still in bloom,
Beside the family he once had
All still now in the gloom,
To wait upon the rising sun
To warm the land and breeze,
To softly take his soul from him
And to him gift sweet peace.
The Traveller woke, his sweat now cold,
He shivered hard with fear
And swallowed sore the choking lump
That oft foretold a tear,
And swore out loud, a solemn vow
Of faith, the fight to come;
For terror shrinks from justice sought,
And fades in endless sun.