The Death of a Young King

THE DEATH OF A YOUNG KING . . . Eight of the strongest and, bravest the of warriors; were collected in all Each chosen for their strength; each of the same height, and, their gaul Their task was not to be an easy one, as to carry home their dead King With the priests to follow on thereafter; with their brass death bell ring This young King had lead them all into battle a bloody battle now all lost Their burden now; to carry this loyal young King, back home, at all cost A grieving young messenger, who then rode, on his trusted black steed That galloping rapidly through green glades; never faltering, with speed With it a message; unwantedly to give to either, courtiers or, his queen One young loyal King killed with a lanced spear clean through his spleen Back yonder as now arranged strong warriors lifted their loyal King aloft Not one word was murmured; as to carry him across the darken lit croft The weight of their loyal young King gilded shield only added to their toll But to bring their brave loyal young King home to be now their only goal Over three hundred miles; they travelled through wet thickets and vales Their woven tartan clads wrapped tightly, protection against harsh gales For two nights and days they carried him until their kingdom was in sight Heads bowed from their tiredness and, the thoughts, of their lowly plight Upon entering the royal courtyard the royal courtiers’ heads were bowed As stood behind them; not one murmur could be heard, from the crowd Stood at a window; a now young widow queen, in black, she was shroud And; a young boy, who upon the sight of his father screaming out aloud As tired warriors lifted their King upon to the grand hall table he was laid While the courtiers all thus lined up and with respects to their King made Thereon; the loyal young King was carried into the privy of his own room Carefully stripped; then cleansed from off the blood, of his ripped wound It was not soon long; before gone was the blood, of this battle well spent That you could see this gallant young King; with whose body, he had lent To protect that of his people, his realm, that of his young queen, and son For after this arduous battle; this young life, was now for; "God", undone Washed and anointed with scents; maids then plaited his long golden hair His sword and shield ready and waiting, as were propped against his chair As a queen knelt beside her now young deceased King; in total, utter grief Visions of her fate; that of her young son, on the death of their clan chief The castle remained in silence within the darkness of the smoke-filled night In readiness of a royal Kings burial that was to be had in the morning light Next morning the same warriors; who had carried, their king home, arose Then loyally lifted their King with hearts constrained, but ready, all in pose Out through the courtyard, passing all heads bowed, up across the bridge Carrying a young King up the hilltop until they rested on the highest ridge Weary hearts lowering their young King; onto the readymade funeral pyre His young son of just fourteen; held high the burning staff to light the fire 7 days were spent in mourning until the smoke of that fire was duly spent With 300 warriors all ready and able their lives to the new young King lent A queen stood watching as her young son and warriors left the castle gate Thinks; if avenging his own father death, would death also be his own fate Indiana Shaw . . . -_-