by Lucirina Telor Vevan
A wind blows softly
over the many shed tears.
The names carved in stone;
witnesses of their existence.
Simple words assign them,
equalled in the loneliness
of forgotten graves.
Their only companion
the chirps of a lost bird.
In their sadness of cold rock
the withered flowers remember
the day when they blossomed,
and with their aroma
they honoured the fallen ones.
Forgotten sighs lie
on the eternal beds.
And an old lament
is the lullaby the wind sings.
In times long past a lie was told
A lie that for many pales
The lie that is as ages old:
“Dead men tell no tales”
Billy Boughs had been a happy man
A man who claimed no foes
But yet someone he had annoyed
For dead was Billy Boughs.
They found his body in my range’s stream
Weighed down with heavy stones
His death was far from any place
But a story told his bones.
For if a man has struggled hard
Against sword, axe or mace
His bones will badly broken be
Of this there was no trace.
And struggle Bill had defnit’ly done
For on the nearby ground
Lay a bloody, twisted knife
T’was Billy’s that I found.
But one other thing we found nearby
Billy’s greatest gift to us
The fingertip of the killer’s hand
With some strange greenish pus.
Now this may not be widely known
It really ain’t too often seen.
If a man has smoked some wizardleaf
His blood may turn bright green!
And in our town there was a mage
He was really pretty strange
He’d always disappear at night
And reappear near that range.
The strangest thing that we had seen
He hadn’t come to town
Word was that he was locked up
Something bad was going down.
I called the boys, we saddled up
And headed for the mage’s place
I had my sword, Keal had his club
And Yaltan had his mace.
We came there, broke down the door
And saw a fearful sight
The evil mage’s skin; it gleamed
In the dusk’s fading light
But though his hide was hard to break
All skins eventually fail
And this one, once it was breached
Was easy to impale.
The wizard passed to Death’s cold grip
Judged on Her cosmic scale
So ends the song of Billy Boughs
And a dead man’s telling tale.
by Lucirina Telor Vevan
The silence shrouds the dark of night,
the moon lets out a silvery breath.
Crickets sing their song so bright
about the cycle of life and death.
The mist falls over sea and land,
and washs away the dust.
Asleep is now both head and hand,
asleep is hate and lust.
The stars, like lanterns far away
Light a way in midst the blue
So the wind may not wander astray
Through woods of adlemir and yew.
A nightbird lifts it's wings to flight
Like a ghost rising from the grave
And with its voice calls out the night
As it slowly ends it dark enclave
As a queen the Injčrá claims her home
As the waves wash towards the shore
The stars and moon disappear in foam
Its morning, morning again, once more.
Poems written by various members