The Grey Cloak
Posted: Mon Jul 18, 2011 5:15 am
It was new once, by his mother's hand was made
now torn and patched, its hem thin and frayed
painted with mud and stained with blood
the grey cloak hung on him like a shadow.
Few wore the cloak now, for the days dwindled
when Rangers wandered, and kept hope kindled
they walked alone without a home
to protect the land that was theirs.
In his days of Spring, learned he the Ranger's Ways
strong and proud his teachers, in those long past days
he learned the art of war until he could know no more
and into the Wilderness he went.
His father's sword by his side, the weight familiar on his hip
his quiver once was full, now only two arrows would fairly rip
from his bow dark-stained by sweat and rain
to fell the orcs that tracked him.
Athelas he chewed, and in the wound he packed it tight
blood seeped from his side, as he ran into the night
his thoughts turned to the lessons he learned
from those masters who long ago lay dead.
False trails he left, and traps he set
his foes he harried, and their blood he let
for he knew that his days were few
and soon no Ranger would be left.
His breath was ragged, staggered were his steps
his grey cloak around him, as life from him crept
his life to end in a wooded glen
by the banks of the Brandywine.
A daughter's tears, a wife's lament
no son to avenge him, an oath sworn and meant
as a tattered grey cloak now but a shroud
a mother begins to make another...
Mirimaran
now torn and patched, its hem thin and frayed
painted with mud and stained with blood
the grey cloak hung on him like a shadow.
Few wore the cloak now, for the days dwindled
when Rangers wandered, and kept hope kindled
they walked alone without a home
to protect the land that was theirs.
In his days of Spring, learned he the Ranger's Ways
strong and proud his teachers, in those long past days
he learned the art of war until he could know no more
and into the Wilderness he went.
His father's sword by his side, the weight familiar on his hip
his quiver once was full, now only two arrows would fairly rip
from his bow dark-stained by sweat and rain
to fell the orcs that tracked him.
Athelas he chewed, and in the wound he packed it tight
blood seeped from his side, as he ran into the night
his thoughts turned to the lessons he learned
from those masters who long ago lay dead.
False trails he left, and traps he set
his foes he harried, and their blood he let
for he knew that his days were few
and soon no Ranger would be left.
His breath was ragged, staggered were his steps
his grey cloak around him, as life from him crept
his life to end in a wooded glen
by the banks of the Brandywine.
A daughter's tears, a wife's lament
no son to avenge him, an oath sworn and meant
as a tattered grey cloak now but a shroud
a mother begins to make another...
Mirimaran
