As I sit upon the meadow,
a dreamlike world at ease,
the rushes, elms, and grasses,
caressed by lazy evening breeze.

The sunset glows on honeyed towers,
the gentle river flows behind,
if only this could last forever,
if only nothing preyed upon my mind.

But I know they're coming,
soon a rabble through the gate,
vicious thugs come to smite me,
and condemn me to my fate.

I spoke truth to power, yes I did,
but the power spat it back,
an explosion of indignance,
a hail of red hot flak.

I look upon my fire,
warming my cold hands,
As another battle comes,
to spill blood upon these lands.

I can hear them in the city,
a clatter of metal upon stone,
what a fool I was to offend,
the children on the throne.

They pour onto the meadow,
a crowd bigger than the past,
but I will not surrender,
I will fight on to the last.

They storm across the landscape,
a horde of spikes and mail,
It will take every ounce of my skill and luck,
to live to tell this tale.

The fire before me ebbs away,
but one ignites inside,
a growing inferno of resistance,
of necessity, and pride.

With a defiant grip, I draw my sword,
it's the end of sweet civility,
as careless feet trample-crunch,
through the embers of tranquillity.