Voiceblog - textul făcut sunet - cu Sandu Barbu.

COAT OF ARMS

  • Scris de Sandu Barbu
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Voiceblog image interlacedYour knees ache as you press them against the dirt. "Too long have I stayed here" the thought sparkles. Old soldiers count on your able hand. "We are weary and our numbers few" their mind is brought to you on a breeze. And you raise your eyes to catch sight of white clouds, that reach down and  caress your bruised face. Let's "cry «havoc» and let loose the dogs of war" the words come to your ear as a whisper. "Your strike will not come gently upon your enemy", you hear and you stand as the voice grows into a rumbling torrent. "Once again will you meet them fearlessly. You need to be seen from afar, for many are the able and brave that still fled to seek shelter and tend to their wounds. Mount again and let the two edged sword be seen by those who would fight. Braid your hair and put on your chest plate, let your armor shine fiercely on the battlefield among the shattered chariots and broken bows lingering as the crows mark the skies upon the fallen.

Call out the troops with your horse's neigh [nei]. Release your voice over the land moist with fresh blood and cause your foes to tremble. Soon you'll be surrounded by a small company of survivors that will raise their weapons of war high and bring their voices in frightful echoes. Lower your blade towards the enemy, showing your host where their fight shall be brought and wait no more. Spur your horse on and release his reigns; have those gathered with you pick up the pace and wait for no one. Such is your duty to them -- to lead as lightning and strike as thunder. Make them fear there might be no enemy left standing before they reach their lines. Roll their doom unto them and as you cause the blood of your comrades simmer in their veins, make your enemy's freeze in theirs. For the victory was yours to take before the beginning of time and the hordes that defy you know who will arise as victor from the clash. See their spears tremble as withered, dead branches of a crumbling forest. Tear the closest group with a thirsty blow and plunge eagerly into their ranks. Plough deep, plough heartily, without rest till you have cleared a wide path, then return and let the others have a taste of your steel as well.

There will be no prisoners, for they have taken none of you. Your shield, with an imprint of a lily-of-the-valley will be the last image they see, as they fall, with the remembrance of your resolve, your calling, your coat of arms.

"So unexpectedly", they think.

"Our downfall brought by such a frail bloom", they drop.

" 'Tis time for peace", your brothers say,

their weary arms pulled down by heavy swords.

"No time for peace", you speak. "They'll see their final blow,

but it won't come from us," you smile

and look upon the clouds.

"So frail they are", you think. "And so unlikely

to hold Someone with such a heavy blow."

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