What Was Taken
The grain on my hills,
Made into your bread while
Children grew thin in their homes.
The swine in my pens,
Roasted in your banquets until
Your corpulence matched your greed.
The grapes grown in my arbors
Fed to you by ambitions whores
Or drunk from my chalices.
The woman in my palace,
Desperate in her weaving, afraid
You would force your way upon her
The son on my speedy ship,
Driven away in guise so your
Claims could be written on scolls.
What was taken,
Will soon be once more
In my weathers hands.
Much like this bow
You could not string.
Copyright © David Welch | Year Posted 2017
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