Nothing Left To Say

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