She was a woman who had a little hair on her chin.
She was older, robust, called simply Old Finn.
It did not make sense that they called her this at nineteen.
Still, she was the wisest one in the local tavern, usually seen.
If we had a question about our drink or our food
We could always ask Old Finn; she was in a loud mood.
That never changed, her voice brought rats from the rafters.
She was a beer-loving-waitress, known by beer drafters.
Her manner was coarse, but she was tavern exact.
Knowing how to do every job and that is a fact!
I grew up here with my grandparents since a little tyke.
I cannot give you your car keys, honey. Borrow a bike.
She took no risks, would not let anyone drive home drunk.
Sometimes she would call the police – her nephew McFunk.
Lumberjack burley, he would take you swiftly out of danger.
You might wake up in bed, sometimes next to a stranger.
Old Finn would keep your secrets, she never spoke ill of you.
She would uplift your spirit, and help you keep down your blue.
Her funeral was the largest our village had ever seen or had.
If you don’t believe me, ask your cousins, mom or granddad.
I've seen trebuchets thrust rocks into crowds.
I've heard the weeping of the wounded pray.
I've walked through blood clad fields and screamed aloud.
Not a sound or even a whisper came.
I've felt the bite of water and of flame,
The warmth of friendship, the breaking of bones.
And I've heard the drafters call out my name,
Said goodbye to everything I have known.
Marched on crimson ground as the sunlight shone,
Held our flag in victory and disgrace.
Celebrated as the bodies lay prone;
The memories I wish I could erase.
Still those faces haunt; those faces of fear!
Long gone they are and yet I am still here.
NOTE: This poem has caused some confusion, so I'm just clearing the air. This poem is fictional and not based on any personal experience.
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