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Poem

There is nothing left to say
Once the wind has blown away
All the leaves from their high nest
To its cradle in the west, 
Where the hills and meadows were
Filled with plaintive dulcimer
Notes descending from the cot
Of the lonely knight, who sought
His good fortune far from home,
In a land where armies roam
At the will of greedy kings,
Of whose deeds the minstrel sings
To the gullible, poor crowd
Whose slow thoughts are borne aloud
From the markets and the streets
To the richly ornate seats
Held by anarchy and pride
In a pose which cannot hide
All their perfidy and lust
For the harvests of the just,
Who must sob in misery
Waiting for eternity,
Where they fancy they’ll receive
What is due to those who give
Of themselves upon this earth,
On whose face they’re cursed with birth—
One as beggar, one as lord,
Neither of his own accord,
Though both human through and through,
About which no man can do
Anything to cast away
The frail moulding of his clay,
Or to summon from the pit
Of his mind what he sees fit
To console himself today
And endure on his long way
From his rise up to his fall
To the dark and eerie call
Of the scythe which severs life
Far more cruelly than the knife
Which sheds blood upon the ground
Once the boar caves to the hound
Trained to heed its master’s call
To the end and above all,
Just as Nature has ordained 
What by man cannot be feigned,
And what ultimately braves
All mere mortals to their graves,
Though what still remains behind
Is for wiser men to find
In the song of the old knight
And the western wind’s great might
As it blows the leaves away
When there’s nothing left to say. 

Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com

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